Barstow said, “I didn’t lie. I know he has a flat in Belgravia. Search there. There’s where I usually met him, before.”
Ben spoke up for the first time. “Belgravia? I thought he had a country estate north of London, that’s where all the articles say he lives.”
“He owns multiple homes.”
Nicholas said, “Ben, please get Adam on it.”
Harry asked, “And what of the one billion pounds you owe him for building your army?”
“I couldn’t put him off any longer. To buy time, I told him I would pay him today. I realized it wouldn’t work, that he would kill me next. You have to kill him.”
Mike said slowly, “You said you aren’t able to pay him the rest of his money because the investors haven’t paid you? Or him? It’s you, isn’t it? They were to pay you, and you were to pay Ardelean.”
“Yes, of course. I’m running the program.”
It was then everything clicked into place. Nicholas said, “No wonder you want us to kill Ardelean. You can’t do it yourself.” Nicholas leaned over right in his face, his hands on the chair arms just as his father had done. “You know what I think? You decided to screw him out of his final payment. You kept his one billion pounds.”
“Of course not! The investors refused to pay, they—” Barstow stopped cold when Nicholas laughed at him, straightened and crossed his arms over his chest.
“You’re a paltry human being, my lord. Did you ever have a grand notion of saving the nations of Africa, of shipping them arms and a drone army to fight off radical Islam? ISIS? Or was it always about getting yourself really, really rich? One billion pounds is a lot of money.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that! I wanted the drone army! Do you hear me, I’m a patriot. I love my country, all my ancestors have loved England, served England. My family is in all the history books. I wanted to join them—I would have been the best of them. I would have saved a country! None of this is my fault. Ardelean is the one, the only one!”
He was heaving. Harry said, “You’re going to call him, Corry. You’re going to reaffirm your promise to pay him. You’ll set it up for tonight. And we’re going to arrest him, not execute him.”
Barstow, calmer now, said, “He’s probably with his brother, but not at the flat in Belgravia. From what I gather, the brother, his twin, has some sort of rare disease. Roman won’t ever say, but I know his twin never leaves the house.”
Harry said, “His twin brother? I didn’t know Ardelean had a brother.”
Nicholas said, “Adam will find Ardelean, and he’ll find his brother, too.” His mobile rang. It was Penderley.
“Sir?”
“Drummond, we have a problem. Another murder. No, not a drone murder with poison fired into the neck, but listen to this. When our people interviewed all the neighbors, an older man reported seeing a falcon perched on the windowsill of the apartment. He thinks it’s the same apartment where the murder occurred. I didn’t like the sound of it. The murdered man is an American. The manner in which he was killed, it is unusual. You’ll see when you arrive. I have a very bad feeling about this.”
Nicholas looked back into the conference room. Adam would locate Ardelean, his father would deal with Barstow. “A falcon? The man was sure?”
“Yes, he was.”
“We’re coming. Where shall I meet you?”
“Dawson Place, Notting Hill, W2. Oh, Drummond? Have you got the murders sorted yet?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so.”
“Ah, excellent. Oh yes, DCI Gareth Scott is the lead.”
He punched off to see Mike beside him, a brow raised. “What was that?”
“Are you in the mood to divide and conquer? Because Penderley needs us, says an American has been murdered in Notting Hill. A falcon was reported sitting on the windowsill. Penderley thought we’d like to get involved. He said something about the manner of the murder was unusual.”
“There’s no ‘we’ in this. I’ll go. You are going to the hospital. No, no arguments.”
He started to argue, but a fierce shaft of pain went through his side. “You’re sure? This could be big, Mike. I really don’t need a doctor—”
“No arguments, or I’ll tell your father.”
“Come back as soon as you can.”
“You promise you’ll go get checked out at the hospital?”
“Actually, there’s usually a physician here.”
“All right, I believe you. Don’t make me hurt you, Nicholas. Now, I’ll catch a cab. How far is it from here to Notting Hill?”
Ian had stepped out of the conference room and had obviously overheard the discussion. “Mike, I’ll drive you. It will be faster. Really, a falcon?”
“Yes, I appreciate that. We should go.” She gave Nicholas’s hand a warning squeeze. “Physician, now. Oh, and Nicholas, don’t shoot Barstow—excuse me—his lordship.”
“That I can’t promise I won’t do.”
“Then do it so we won’t be caught.” And she and Ian were gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon, which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Roman soothed Arlington, lightly rubbing her feathers, which he knew the falcon loved. He hated having to need anyone, but he knew he needed this woman who lay terrified, her stomach bleeding. He set Arlington on her perch and turned back to her. “You are Romanian.”
“Yes, you know that.”
“Your mother?”
“Didn’t I tell you? She was a gymnast, from Walachia. She’s dead now. You can’t hurt her.”
Walachia. The birthplace of his ancestors.
It had to be true, she was of his line. But her last name—Marin.
“Your father is American?”
“Yes.”
He felt excitement, a sense of victory, very close now. “Hold still and it won’t hurt. I’ve become very good at this.” He pulled out a kit to take her blood, swabbed alcohol on her tethered arm, then expertly drew off a vial. He needed to run it immediately.
“What are you doing?”
Roman said, “You’re the daughter of a gymnast from Walachia—is your mother Nadia Gabor?”
“Nadia Gabor Marin.”
He pulled up a chair beside her. “She was Gypsy stock.”
Isabella said nothing, stared as he ran a long white finger down the length of her arm. A fine red drop of blood sat in the crook of her elbow. “What are you going to do with my blood? What is this all about?”
“How far back do you know your bloodline?”
“What?”
“Answer me!”
“I don’t—not very far. If you’re at all familiar with Romanians, you’ll know many of the records are lost. The only way we can find each other is through online DNA testing, which of course we’ve done as most everyone has. It didn’t reveal very much, only a few matches.”
“Excellent. I will look on your computer and see what I can find. I want to see every match you’ve made.”
“Tell me what this is all about. You’re taking my blood and you’re probably going to kill me anyway. Why not tell me why you’re doing this?”
Roman smiled at her, patted her arm right above the Band-Aid he pressed down. “You won’t die, not for a long time.” He studied her a moment, recognized her on some very deep level.
“Why not tell you the truth? My brother, my twin—Radu—suffers from a rare form of hemophilia, one untreatable by modern medicine. The Voynich tells how to cure blood illnesses, but there were missing instructions, missing ingredients. I’ve read the pages you supposedly found, and you know what? The instructions are now complete. I can mix the potion and know it’s correct. But I always knew Radu’s illness was different from the others in our line, not like the blood diseases discussed by the twins in the Voynich. When it became clear that only blood from our line would help him, I began a search all over Eastern Europe. It appears Romanians live everywhere. Wherever I’ve traveled, I’ve taken Romanian blood, but have never found a perfect match.