He needed the weapons to hand over to his friend the imam, but he wasn’t worried. In this world, weapons were easy to come by. Weapons brokers were a dime a dozen.
No matter, he’d positioned himself perfectly in the government so when the chancellor’s policies of open borders backfired as a result of multiple deadly terrorist attacks, she would be blamed and the country’s confidence in her would plummet. And he, Vice Chancellor Heinrich Hemmler, would have no choice but to call for a special election to replace her. He would, of course, be elected in her place. And then he would discreetly settle his ISIS brethren in a small town in Bavaria as their foothold in Europe. They’d paid him a lot of money and given him their word there would be no further acts of violence in Germany once the chancellor was gone.
It was a pity no one would ever know how he’d pulled off secret negotiations with terrorist leaders. No one would ever know it was he who had protected Germany—only a small number of sacrifices to be made along the way. That he was making himself rich in the process was only fitting. He was his country’s savior. The deal he’d made was brilliant.
A gentlemen’s agreement, if one could call those rapacious deathmongering murderers gentlemen, but he trusted them to keep their word. Money had already been deposited in one of his private bank accounts. After the bombings in Frankfurt, Berlin, and Munich, the tide would turn irrevocably against the chancellor, and no one else would have to die, at least no more Germans. He slid a hand down his yellow silk tie and hummed, low in his throat. Nothing but silk and Savile Row for him from now on.
The car pulled onto Downing Street and stopped. Heinrich waited for a beat, as his security team built a protective wedge for him to step into.
Let’s go, let’s go, let’s get this ridiculous business over with.
“All clear,” one of his guards said as he opened the door and allowed Hemmler to step into the wedge onto the street. He moved fast, as always.
There were only five steps to the entrance. He took the first step into a very un-English warm and clear day.
Second step.
Third.
Something bit his neck, almost a lover’s bite, as Krista liked to do. He slapped his hand to the spot, but nothing was there. White-hot pain, everywhere, he staggered. His eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees, clawing at himself as a burst of hellish fire coursed through him, burning him up from the inside.
He heard shouts, felt hands lifting him, dragging him to the doors, his knees scraping the cement, as he was manhandled inside Downing Street. He heard the grand doors slam shut behind him. He clearly heard shouts for help, but he couldn’t talk, couldn’t move. Or breathe. They laid him on the carpet in the foyer. It felt so soft under his cheek, but only for an instant, because the flames were consuming him, making him want to scream, only he couldn’t.
Heinrich knew he was dying. He had no chance to pray for forgiveness, nor did his life flash before his eyes. He only had a brief thought of his wife and his mistress before he actually felt his heart slowing and the softness of the rug beneath his cheek, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
Old Farrow Hall
Farrow-on-Gray, England
Nicholas Drummond looked through the wide breakfast room windows that gave onto the beautifully groomed back gardens, in full midsummer bloom. He saw the labyrinth, made up of thick yew bushes, vivid green, stretching up as tall as a man, and beyond, a slice of a trail that led into the home wood. He turned when his grandfather came into the room. Eldridge Augustus Nyles Drummond, eighth Baron de Vesci, was still going strong at eighty-four, still the head of the multibillion pound enterprise Delphi Cosmetics, but now he appeared upset. He sat at the table and stared down a moment at his lumpy porridge, automatically poured milk and a fistful of brown sugar on top, and took a quick bite.
“Bollocks,” the baron said and shoveled in another bite.
“What’s wrong, Grandfather? Are the Saracens nearly at the wall?”
The baron smacked his fist on the table, making his teacup bounce. “It’s crazy, boy, that’s what it is. My IT man, Giles Fourtnoy, just called, said it’s ransomware, said these miscreants are demanding a million pounds in—bitcoins? What the devil is a bitcoin anyway? And a million of them? Would they fit in a teacup or an armored van? Giles said our sites are down until we pay up, and he can’t fix them. But I knew you could, Nicholas, and so I told Giles. First tell me, what is a blasted bitcoin?”
This was not good. Ransomware had hit England, a main target the National Health Service—whose security was laughable—but not Delphi Cosmetics, with its top-notch security, which meant these buggers were good. He figured how he was going to fix things, which had to include Covert Eyes’s cyber expert, Adam Pearce. He remembered everyone celebrating when Adam had turned twenty. He said, “A bitcoin is a form of monetary recompense used primarily online to pay for services rendered. They don’t exist in the material world, unfortunately. They’re virtual. Most of the services unsavory, as you’ve just learned. I’ll try to save your systems from the ransomware attack without your having to pay anything.”
Nicholas’s grandfather looked relieved. “Well, that’s why you came for a visit, isn’t it, only neither of us realized it when you and Michaela drove up on Sunday. Well, get to it, my boy, we stand to lose millions every single day the direct delivery systems and websites are down. And you know Giles, he’ll pull out all his hair if there’s any delay, and he doesn’t have much to begin with.”
Nicholas said more to himself than to his grandfather, “They must have a back door to stop the attack once they’re paid. I’ll find it, disable the lockdown on Delphi’s systems, push some nasty code their way to disrupt the attack, which will not only release your systems but also should stop the attacks elsewhere, as well.”
His grandfather said, “Good, get to it. Oh yes, Nicholas—I want to see one of these demmed bitcoins. Bitcoins sound as silly as the name you and Michaela gave your FBI team—Covert Eyes. What is a covert eye, I ask you? You skulk about without anyone seeing you? Now, that’s a laugh. The earth shakes when you’re in town.”
“Ah well, we’re supposed to be discreet, really, we do try. There are seven of us, each with a different area of expertise, I guess you could say. We were tasked to travel anywhere in the world in order to solve problems.” He snorted. “Now that certainly sounds high and mighty. First thing I’ll do is call Adam. Here’s Mike now—we’ll get on it right away.”
The baron snorted. “She’s been out running again?”
“She’s trying to keep up with a member of our Covert Eyes group—Louisa Barry’s her name—and she runs marathons. Mike says she still has a long way to go to get anywhere near Louisa.”
The baron shoveled in another spoonful of oatmeal, smacked his lips. “Imagine, girls running around like men, even racing. But I’ll say the girl keeps herself in good shape, just like your mother, always walking here and there, bending herself into strange postures, poses, she calls them. Your mother says it keeps her limber and strong, keeps your father on his toes. He agrees, says he never knows when she’ll chase him down. Downward dog is one of her poses—that sounds as crazy as bitcoins.” He paused a moment. “The girl has a brain, Nicholas, also like your mother. I say, I do appreciate a good brain in a female.”
Nicholas said, “I think Mike knows a downward dog or two herself, Grandfather.” He saw Mike break out of the home wood and run toward the side of the house, her long-legged stride smooth and steady. He knew she’d already done two laps around the lake. Next time, he’d join her, show her some of the places he’d played as a boy. But first he had to take care of the ransomware.