“And now I have you. If you are my perfect match, then with the final instructions in the pages, the potion, and your blood, we’ll cure Radu.”
Her pages held the final answers? Her blood was his perfect match? No, it was crazy. He believed she was of his familial line? “Why can’t you use your own blood?”
“Because my blood has the same defective gene within it, though I don’t suffer from the disease. As I said, I need blood from our familial line.”
“What line are you talking about?”
“And here I thought you were clever. Whose do you think?”
She shook her head.
“You and I and Radu, I believe we are all direct descendants of Vlad Dracul III. And once I’ve tested your blood, I will prove it.”
She was afraid, her stomach hurt from the falcon’s sharp claws, and yet this astounded her. “You know he’s not really Dracula, don’t you?”
He wanted to strike her but didn’t. Other than Radu, she was the most important person in the world, at least her precious blood was. He managed to shrug while he thumbed a tab onto his tongue. “And how do you know? We are living proof—direct descendants, one with diseased blood, another, the stronger, who will cure him.”
“So you think you’re a vampire?”
“You stupid woman, you think I’m mad? Of course I’m not a vampire in the movie sense, nor is Radu. I told you, Radu and I are descendants of Vlad Dracul, a very real man. Am I born to blood? Do I drink it?” He smiled at her and shrugged again.
She wanted to scream, she wanted to curse, but she was helpless. If she was a match, if he proved she was in the direct line, no, he wouldn’t kill her, he’d keep her around as his permanent blood bank for his brother. She felt grief flood her, grief for herself, grief for Gil, never to take another amazing photo, never to know a life with her, never to have children. She wanted to weep, but instead, she whispered, “Why did you kill Gil, my fiancé? He had done nothing to you. You cut his throat. Why?”
Roman lightly ran a fingertip over her eyebrows, smoothing them. “Ah, I suppose because he was there. I didn’t cut his throat, by the way, not exactly. Truth is, too, I am rather used to killing. I suppose you could say it’s second nature to me, my own special way. And he would have presented complications. Now, you’ll excuse me, Dr. Marin, but I have other things to attend to. I will be back, don’t worry about that. Ah, don’t try to escape. There is no way.” He waved the vial of her blood at her, smiled. “Think of all the beautiful blood you will give Radu.”
She heard Radu shout, “Roman. Roman, come, now!”
Roman bolted from the room, rushed to Radu’s side, where he sat hunched at his bank of computers.
“What, what is it?”
“Look, we received an email with a video attached. You need to see this.”
“Play it.”
There was no sound, and the composition was grainy and dark. There were two people in the frame.
Radu said, “Look, he’s handcuffed to the table. He’s a prisoner. Who is the other man, the one with his back to the camera?”
Roman looked closer. “Is that—Caleb Temora in handcuffs?”
“Yes. And look, the standing man turns, you can see half his face now.”
Roman watched carefully, felt his heart kick, felt adrenaline flood him.
“Roman, is that—”
“Barstow. That’s Barstow. Why does he have Caleb in custody? Why are they alone? When is this dated?”
“There is no date. No identification.”
“Who sent it?”
“The address is gibberish. It will take me time to decipher.”
Roman thumbed a tab in his mouth to calm his mind so he could think clearly, rationally. Barstow and Temora?
He said slowly, “So MI6 captured Temora where? In Syria, probably, in an ISIS camp, and Barstow brought him as a prisoner to London. I wonder if Barstow made him hack Radulov or if Temora volunteered to take me down.”
Radu said, “You have the drones hidden in Scotland, Roman. Only Raphael Marquez, Cyrus Wendell, and I know they’re there. I think Barstow wanted Temora to find them so he could get ahold of them, cut you out. Maybe he also wanted Temora to hack MATRIX in order to distract you, and Caleb decided he would try to destroy you instead.”
“By bringing down Radulov.” Roman felt a surge of rage and thumbed another tab onto his tongue. “Perhaps Barstow forced Caleb to write the hack on Radulov. Maybe Barstow didn’t only want the drone army location, he wanted me ruined and destroyed.” He paused a moment. “It’s all about the billion pounds, Radu, all about money, or what’s left of it.”
Radu said, his Voynichese even more guttural because he was upset, “Barstow is smart, but that would be beyond him, I think. No, I think Caleb wants to destroy you.”
“Why send the video then? Why show me he’s Barstow’s prisoner? Make me think he’s a hero?”
Radu shrugged. “Caleb worshipped you, Roman, but he also resented you. He saw you as the alpha male he had to defeat. When you stopped his pet project, he had only one goal—to prove he was better than you. I think he wanted you to figure this all out and recognize him as being the victor, so now he was the alpha. He sent the video to taunt you. I think he’s laughing at you, Roman.”
Roman nodded slowly. At last he understood. Barstow had wanted the drone army to swarm through Africa and defeat radical Islam, so he’d go down in history as a hero, like his blighter ancestors. But that was only a part of it. He thought again, Barstow wanted the money. Which had he wanted most? Roman had to laugh. A clever plan, but Temora’s video, regardless of his motives, was proof of what Barstow had done. He gave a moment’s thought to Vittorini, Alexander, and Donovan. He realized now they probably paid their share, and Barstow had kept it. He gave a moment’s regret to killing them. He lightly patted Radu’s shoulder.
“Of course you’re right, about all of it. It’s all so simple, really. The moment Barstow knew I had the drone army ready, the moment I told him he had to pay me, he had Temora hack into Radulov to find where I was storing them. What would he do? Send a special-ops squad up to Scotland to steal them?” He paused, stood. “Do you know, I really don’t care why Temora sent me the video. He is what he is, curse him to hell.”
“What will you do?”
“I must think, Radu. Something fitting for both Barstow and Temora.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Interpol Orange Notice: To warn of an event, a person, an object, or a process representing a serious and imminent threat to public safety.
—Interpol.int
Dawson Place
Notting Hill, London
The street ahead was lined with cars. A crime scene was a crime scene no matter what country you were in. A falcon seen on the windowsill. Was it Ardelean? Had he murdered whoever this man was? And why?
Mike flashed her credentials and was through the line and up the stairs to the flat in moments. As she entered, she looked around—so familiar, so normal—aside from the forensic techs in white Tyvek jumpsuits.
A woman was seated on the living room sofa, blank-faced, in shock. She had tissues in one limp hand, a photography bag at her feet. Shouldn’t she be the one taking photos? Not a crime-scene tech, then. A witness, perhaps. But what was she still doing here?
“Mike!”
Mike turned to see Nicholas’s former second-in-command, Gareth Scott, walking toward her. He whipped off his gloves and held out his hand. They shook. “It’s good to see you. Penderley said you’d be along. Thanks for coming so quickly.” He waved a hand around him. “This whole thing with the falcon on the windowsill, Penderley said it had to do with the case you and Nicholas are working here in London. And the poor lad found on the kitchen floor was an American.”
“Good to see you, as well, Gareth. And yes, the falcon—it very likely does tie in with our case. Gareth, this is Ian Sansom, MI5. Ian, this is DI Gareth Scott.”
A big smile bloomed. “It’s Detective Chief Inspector now, Mike, papers signed last week. Sansom? MI5, you say? A pleasure.” And the two men shook hands.