He wondered if Barstow had confessed all to Drummond, if he’d admitted to his role in screwing over Radulov using Temora, and if Roman had met him at the Prince Edward Theatre, he knew he would be dead or in custody now. He had to assume that Drummond, that his son, Nicholas, that all of them, knew everything. He couldn’t afford not to assume that. Where was Temora? Could he find him? Find out if he’d tried to warn him by sending the video, or taunt him? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. In the end, Temora was the tool Barstow had used to destroy Roman.
He thumbed another microdose onto his tongue, then another. A strong, hard voice filled his head, his voice. Screw Temora, he was always jealous of you, he was taunting you, not trying to save you. No, you have to save yourself. You have to save Radu.
His company was in ruins, the stock price plummeting, his drone army was unpaid for, his brother deathly ill—ah, but they had Isabella and the pages. She would cure Radu. But it was time to flee. They’d take her with them, and she’d be his permanent blood bank. All would work out.
He thought of the billon pounds he’d never get now. Where had Barstow stashed the money? In foreign accounts, of course. He’d never find them.
Still, none of that mattered anymore. They were hunting him now. Why wasn’t Radu or Iago answering their phones at the Old Garden?
Finally he tapped into the house server, on his mobile, only to find someone had locked him out. Of his own server. His own house.
What was happening?
He patched in through a coded back door they wouldn’t be able to follow. From what he could piece together, Drummond, Caine, and a DI from Scotland Yard had dropped onto the house from a helicopter, and Roman’s elaborate defense system had worked perfectly. The antiaircraft missile hidden in the chimney had shot down the helicopter. The guns, gauntlet, and oubliette had all been triggered. All his defenses had worked as they should. But what had happened? Had Drummond stopped Isabella from giving her blood to Radu? Worry clawed and dug deep. He thumbed another microdose to slow his heart rate, to allow him to think clearly.
The internal cameras mounted inside the walls of the house had never been used before, and he’d forgotten all about them, until now. Radu hated the lack of privacy, but Roman had insisted there be a way to check on him when he wasn’t there, when he was traveling, or when he was hunting with the cast. In case something happened. In case he had a bleed and they couldn’t control it. In case Radu felt the pressure of his loneliness and opened a vein.
In case.
What he saw he couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t accept, but it was true—the lab was in shambles. People—strangers—shifted through the room, in and out of the view of the cameras. Tyvek-clad, they seemed to dip and glide around the space, their dance making it look more like a Level IV biohazard lab, one that dealt with research on hemorrhagic fevers and other extreme-risk biological hazards. They moved as if in outer space, slowly, carefully.
At that moment, he knew he couldn’t handle what he was about to see and slid two more tabs of LSD in his mouth to keep him calm, to keep him centered. To keep him distanced from this horror he was viewing.
He shut his eyes and allowed the drugs to take effect. When he felt his heart slow, and his breathing deepen, he reopened his eyes. Arlington watched him with great curiosity, love in her yellow eyes. As if she knew he needed her strength, she flew to the back of his chair. Her jesses trailed on his shoulder. She stood carefully, not allowing her talons to hurt her master.
Roman swallowed once more and looked.
His brother was small in death, curled on his side, his legs drawn up, like he had slept when they were children. They’d slept that way together each night, with legs drawn up to their stomachs, like two small commas back to back.
Radu was dead, Drummond had murdered him. Where was Isabella? Roman grew light-headed and so cold his teeth began to chatter as if it were he who’d lost his blood, not his brother.
He realized he was keening, like Radu when he was so upset he was beyond control, Arlington beside him, cheeping through her nose. Radu—losing him was something he’d fought against for their whole lives. He’d protected his brother, created a safe space for him, studied everything he could. Harassed, stolen, murdered—no life had been as sacred as Radu’s.
Arlington cheeped again. He swung out his arm, and she went straight to the fist. He pulled her to his chest. His arm was a mass of scars from years of falconry—Roman didn’t like the gauntlet, loved to feel the talons of his birds against his bare skin. But Arlington was gentle. She nestled her beak under his neck, and they stayed together for a very long time, the man lost in misery, the bird his comfort.
In the end, he stood, shut off the cameras so he wouldn’t see them touching his dead twin.
He set Arlington gently back onto the chair and started to plan.
Run?
By himself? But for what? To save and rebuild his company? To grow old alone with only his cast?
Everything he cared about was gone. He was wanted now—he was the hunted.
He’d heard a legend that the lost pages of the Voynich were cursed, and that’s why they were torn out. Did he believe the legend now? He thought again of all the people sacrificed in his search to find a blood match for Radu, all his intellect and enthusiasm he’d brought to bear on building Barstow’s drone army. And now there was nothing left. Nothing at all.
Barstow, so high in the British government, one of their favored sons, had proved himself a self-serving greedy monster. Roman saw all of those arrogant cabinet members gathering together, scheming how to use him, to steal from him. They’d stolen everything from him.
He would not let them win.
Roman stood tall, brought the bird to his fist, looked deep in her yellow eyes. He walked to the window, drew back the blinds. The city sprawled below him.
“Are you ready, Arlington? We are going to burn London to the ground and dance in the ashes.”
Arlington nuzzled his neck and cheeped.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Nicholas absently rubbed the wound on his side as he watched the team work. Mike had patched him up again, disinfected and rebandaged him. The first paramedics to come had taken Gareth to the hospital. They’d recommended Nicholas come as well, but he’d only shaken his head.
Isabella hadn’t said much since Radu died. She’d been silent when the paramedics had removed the tubing from her arm, and applied a pressure bandage. She continued silent as they tended to Radu.
Nicholas knew she was in shock, but he wasn’t concerned until she began shaking uncontrollably. He lightly laid his hand on her shoulder, looked up to see the second responding paramedic watching them. “Go with him to the hospital. They’ll take care of you. We’ll speak later, when you’re ready.”
He and Mike watched her be carried out in the arms of the medic, her head on his shoulder. She was accompanied by two Metropolitan Police officers to stand guard, just in case. Knowing Roman’s resources, Nicholas didn’t doubt he now knew his twin had died. And he would blame them. What would he do?
Nicholas immediately called his father’s mobile, and to his profound relief, Harry answered immediately. “I’m all right, Nicholas, only a bit fried at the edges. You probably know what happened: a drone dropped a bomb on the Range Rover, nearly in front of the Prince Edward Theatre. Barstow is dead, and my driver, Higgins, as well. Before you ask, no, we haven’t yet found Roman Ardelean. Tell me what happened at his house.”
After Nicholas was done, his father was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “A tragic conclusion. But Isabella is safe and on her way to hospital. Now, Barstow told me a great deal more before the bomb. He confessed everything, but only because, I think, he knew Ardelean was going to kill him. I’ll tell you the whole of it later, after you finish going through Ardelean’s house.”
“Father, wait. Why did Arde
lean kill Barstow before he’d gotten the money?”
“Ardelean isn’t stupid, he knew it was a trap. But the biggest reason? He had to have found out it was Barstow who ruined Radulav.”
“Others are working, Father. Tell me the rest of it. What did Barstow tell you?”
“He said he used a young man named Caleb Temora. You asked for the list of Radulav’s terminated employees? Well, this man was on the list. He and Ardelean had a falling-out—he was recruited to ISIS. Barstow’s people pulled him out a year ago. Barstow forced him to build the hack that spread the ransomware through MATRIX. I tried talking to Temora, but he isn’t willing to play ball, as your mother likes to say. When you’re free, I want you to question him.”
“Where are you holding him?”
“He’s jailed in a black-ops site in Mayfair. Listen, Nicholas, after all that’s happened, and given Ardelean’s increase in drug use, I can’t imagine he’s all that rational at this point. Revenge was more important to him. Wait.” A moment later, his father said, “That was Adam. Evidently Ardelean stayed overnight at the Savoy. He must have conducted the attack on the theater from there. Ian and a team went to the hotel, spoke to the desk, and facial recognition confirmed. Ardelean was wearing a disguise and used a false name. Ian was told he was already gone. They searched his room, but all the team found were a few feathers—so one or more of his birds was there with him. Unfortunately, he’s disappeared again. We have operatives at every known address, but nothing. He’s gone to ground. Nicholas, I think events are moving too fast. Come now, speak to this hacker Temora.”
“Give me an hour, Father. I’m stripping the computers to take to Adam to analyze, then we need to stop by Thames House. Get me the address, and we’ll meet you there. And, Father?”
“Yes?”
He swallowed, cleared his throat. “I am very glad you’re all right. Mum would have killed me if something happened to you.”
“She very likely might have,” Harry said, laughed, and rang off. “Now you know how I felt when Barstow shot you.”
* * *
When Nicholas finished ripping apart the last computer, he joined Mike in the lab suite. “I see a lot of jars and bottles and test tubes. Any idea what it’s all for?”
“This section is for synthetic LSD, I believe. They were manufacturing their own. There are large quantities of ergotamine and lysergic acid.”
Nicholas read some of the labels. “Hydrazine, hydrochloric acid, sodium nitrate—yes, they were manufacturing LSD. All of the components necessary for the epibatidine are here, too.”
“It’s going to take hours to catalog all of this.” She put a hand against his cheek. His face was still smudged with smoke, and his hair had dust and bits of debris in it from the roof. She leaned up and wiped her finger across his nose. “Ah, that’s better. I’ve really smeared it now. Your dad’s truly okay?”
“Yes. Adam found out Ardelean stayed overnight at the Savoy, but he’s gone to ground. You’ll like this—Barstow was apparently using a hacker who worked for Ardelean before they had a falling-out. Barstow used him to try and dismantle Radulav. We’re going to go talk to him—name’s Caleb Temora—as soon as you’re finished.”
“Oh, I’m done. Nothing more I can do here. Just curious why LSD, of all things.” She cocked her head, “The two drugs we know they were making do have something common—they were both tested for mood stabilization and pain relief in the sixties. And microdosing is popular again, small doses stabilize your mood.”
Nicholas said, “Evidently Ardelean was using more and more.”
“From what I’ve read, too much and he’d go off the rails, lose objectivity, lose sight of what was real and what wasn’t. And paranoia, to list only a few things that could happen.”
“Isn’t that all we need? A genius who’s gone crazy.” He waved the hard drives at her. “If you’re done here, let me show you something else interesting—a pilot’s nest for the drone system. Then we’ll go talk to this Caleb Temora.”
Ardelean’s homemade air traffic control center was a room at the end of the long hallway. Nicholas pressed some keys, and huge screens whirred to life—aerial maps, weather forecasts, the flight paths of all of London, lit up in reds and greens. There was a cockpit, as well, facing the screens, with a huge gearshift. He said, “This is how they were flying the drones. Remote access—they can fly one from the other side of the world with this setup. It’s military-grade, like our folks have. At least we know where the drones were being piloted from, and how.”
Mike could only marvel. “To think this was in the hands of a civilian, practically in the middle of London. At least we can feel safe that the drones are grounded.”
Nicholas said, “We can’t know that Ardelean doesn’t have another flight command.” He studied the keyboard, said, “I think their pilot was Radu, and he’s lying dead in the other room. See, all the software is coded to him. Unless Roman pilots them himself, which is obviously possible—” He shrugged. “At least we’ve shut down one level of his operation. Now, let’s get these hard drives to Adam. I’d like a shower and some food. Then we need to go talk to this mystery hacker my father is guarding.”
She followed him, “I want the MI5 physician to check your wound again.”
He shook his head. “Not necessary, don’t you remember? A medic went over me, pronounced me good to go.”
“He did no such thing. He stared at you and shook his head.”
“You know what I really want? A big, juicy American hamburger, maybe with cheddar on top, lots of onions—”
“Oh, be quiet. I know you, you won’t eat or sleep as long as we have a drug-addled genius with a drone army on the loose.”
“Sadly, you’re right.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The Federal Aviation Administration projects that by 2020 there will be 7 million small drones occupying U.S. airspace.
—GCN
MI5 Headquarters, Home Office
Thames House
12 Millbank
Westminster, London
Adam bounced up from his seat like a cork when they came into the room. “You guys look like you’ve been in a war. You okay?”
Mike patted his arm. “We’re okay. We promise.”
“Good, because that wasn’t cool. Do you want to see the video of what happened?”
Nicholas nodded. “We missed something rather major on the satellite pass. I’d like to see where the missile battery was hidden.”
Adam had the video queued up. He didn’t tell them he’d already watched it fifty times, heart in his throat every time.
He hit play. “Here’s your chopper, comes in quiet, perfect, hovers. Mike goes down, and, as she does, look here. The surface-to-air missile came out of the chimney. It was disguised to look like a piece of brick. The whole section slides free, and it launches, a direct hit on the windshield of the chopper. We think it was on a motion sensor.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Exactly. Nicholas, there you go. Your jump coincides with the missile launch, and, as you can see, the helicopter goes ass over teakettle, barely misses Mike’s head with the rotors, and flings you into the air as it flips, catapults Gareth to the edge of the roof, where he falls and you catch him, and goes down the building. Serious acrobatics ensue, and then Mike saves you and Gareth.
“I’m so sorry about the pilots. They didn’t know what hit them, literally didn’t change their speech patterns. It was so quick.” His voice cracked, and Nicholas put a hand on Adam’s shoulder.
“It felt like a thousand years up there. Thank you for this. Now.” He dropped a waxed canvas bag in Adam’s lap. “Here are all the hard drives from Ardelean’s house and laboratory.”
“Yeah, what was the laboratory about?”
“Manufacturing drugs. Epibatidine and LSD, for starters. But I’m sure there’s more—there was an entire genetics laboratory there, high-end stuff. You let us know what you find, okay?”
&n
bsp; “Copy that. You’re heading to meet your dad? Here’s the address. That’s where they’re holding the hacker Temora. And, guys? You’ve just aged me nearly a year, and I don’t want to be twenty-one yet, too adult for me. So be careful, okay? Ardelean has to be royally pissed. I’ll bet he plans to give a new meaning to being on the warpath.”
Once Adam was alone again, he set up a pipe directly to Gray in New York, and the two of them began communicating through a separate, secure video feed. “How are the bosses?”
“They’ve been better. It was a long night. But they’re both alive and in one piece, so that’s an upside. Nicholas brought me all the hard drives.”
“Good,” Gray said. “How about we divide and conquer. You take half the terminals. I’ll take the other half. See what we can find.”
“Sounds good.” Adam spent twenty minutes setting up all of the hard drives on their dedicated terminals before he started pulling data out of them as fast as he could. Gray, remotely accessing his half of the terminals, whistled quietly to himself.
“What are you seeing?”
“There’s a lot here, Adam. Most of it is encoded—it’s going to take ages to sift through it all. Definitely experiments, years of data. The chemistry is astounding. If they’d been doing this in a government or university lab, they’d be Nobel contenders. I count three separate genome-related medications that they’ve developed. Two didn’t work in human trials, but the third showed promise. I assume that’s what Radu had Mike inject into him.”
“So when you say human trials—”
“Radu was the guinea pig. My God, he could have killed himself ten times over if any of this went wrong.”
“This server is all artificial intelligence generating information on the Voynich manuscript. We’re talking years of data and papers and footnotes. But the language itself—this is artificial intelligence at a whole new level. They were even starting to experiment with drones flown by AI instead of pilots. Now that’s a dangerous thought. These guys are geniuses.”
The Sixth Day Page 31
