Adam ran through what he had found of the house’s schematics. He would kill for a decent set of blueprints, was searching online the whole while, but hadn’t found the right ones yet.
“Nicholas, I’m not seeing any other ingress, but the estate is huge. Seventeen acres of land around it, too. We don’t have enough time to map it all if we want to go in tonight.”
“What’s this, right here? Freeze frame, please.”
Nicholas pointed to an area to the right of the helipad. “There are edges here. Uniform edges. What is this? Can we get the cameras to pan in?”
Gareth said, “Wait, wait, wait, it’s opening. The roof is opening.”
They watched in silence as a section of the roof slid back. In the eerie silence of the massive screens, a black rectangular hole gaped open, and birds began flying out of the roof.
Nicholas asked, “Bloody hell. What is this?”
Mike grinned. “They’re falcons. The ones that have been watching us, I’ll bet, and one of them carried that drone away.”
They watched the screen as it cleared. The roof stayed open.
Adam said, “So there is another way in.”
“Better yet,” Nicholas said, “it’s another way out. That bird roof could be on some sort of automated switch. If it’s a timer, we’re royally screwed, but if it’s something we can control, we can get out through there. The roof it is.” He looked at Mike. “You ready to go for a ride?”
She grinned at him. “Always. This is a walk in the park compared to dropping onto a ship deck in the North Sea.”
Harry said, “I want to try and confirm one hundred percent this is his home. Get Barstow in here. Let’s have him try to make the call again, see if we can pull Ardelean out of the house. We can arrest him off-site and, with any luck, the house—and the falcons—won’t fight back.”
* * *
Barstow was alone in the library next to the command center, his wrist handcuffed to a heavy brown leather couch arm. When Nicholas and Harry came in, Barstow looked up. With his free hand he took off his glasses, held up a slim volume showing an oil painting of a house. “Churchill wasted his time on painting. But his book about his passion is quite charming.”
Harry looked down at him. He looked older, somehow less substantial, his good-old-boy attempt at normalcy pathetic, really. He said, “We need to find Ardelean immediately. He’s murdered a civilian and kidnapped a woman. We have to get her back.”
Barstow laughed. “So, he’s finally gone barking mad, has he?”
Nicholas said, “He’s probably been killing for years. We need to bring him in now. We believe we’ve found his estate, and we believe he’s taken the woman there. It’s well fortified, and we are going in to rescue her. But we need him out of the house. We don’t need the complication of trying to take him down and saving her. If he’s completely off the rail, as you believe, he might simply kill her to spite us. We want her alive. We want him alive, too.”
Harry said, “Try again, Corry. Call him now.”
Barstow pulled out his mobile. “You know he hasn’t been answering . . .” But he put his mobile on speaker and hit a few numbers with his free hand. They waited while the phone rang and rang. Barstow shook his head and turned it off. Moments later, a text appeared.
I’m busy.
Barstow lit up. “Got him.”
Nicholas said, “Tell him you have the money, and you’ll meet him at the flat in Belgravia.”
I have the money. Meet me in usual place.
Someone is watching the usual place. What have you done, Barstow? Who have you talked to?
I’ve done nothing. I give up. You’ve made your point. I have your money. The wire transfers will be completed within the hour, but you have to accept them yourself, in person. I need a thumbprint. You know how this works. Let’s be done with this, Roman. Take your money and give me my army.
There was nothing. Nicholas said, “We lost him.”
But the screen lit up again.
I won’t meet for wire transfers. You get me money, and we’ll talk. Call me when you have the cash.
Another pause, then:
And, Barstow, no more games. I know what you’ve done.
Nicholas said, “What does he mean, he knows what you’ve done?”
Barstow shrugged. “I don’t know. But he’ll come if I promise him cash. We can meet at the theater.”
Nicholas asked, “What theater?”
“The Prince Edward. Hamlet is playing.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “How much money are we talking about?”
“You heard me, I promised him the full amount.” Barstow shrugged again. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll take him, and the money won’t matter.”
“I suppose you have the one billion pounds, Corry, stashed in accounts out of the country?”
“No, of course not. I told you, the investors hadn’t paid up. I did keep a bit from their first payment, only fair. Again, I am not the criminal in this. I am a patriot who wanted only to fight terrorism. It is Ardelean.”
Nicholas looked at his father. His face was expressionless. No, there was something else—it was disappointment. In this man he’d known most of his life.
Harry looked away from Barstow. “Nicholas, we’ll split the teams. You’re on the rescue squad. I’ll go with Barstow and another team to take Ardelean into custody. And Nicholas?”
“Sir?”
“Be careful. You’ve already been shot in the side. I know, you’re fine, you’re always fine, but we have no idea what might be waiting for you inside that house. I—be careful, Nicholas.” Harry cleared his throat, said to Barstow, “Send the text to Ardelean. The theater it is.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Isabella didn’t know if it was night or day, nor did she care. The drug they’d given her had sent her into a surreal landscape made up of Voynichese language, but somehow perverted so she couldn’t read it. And the drawings, the green women and constellations and bizarre plants, what were they? She faded away, in and out.
Nor did she know how much time had passed, but now she was awake, clearheaded, and being wheeled into a stark white room that felt almost like a hospital suite by an older man, white white skin, his hair pale blond mixed with silver, no expression on his seamed face. She was tied down to the gurney in webbing—arms, legs, and neck. She knew what was going to happen. They were going to take her blood. How much? She saw Roman come toward her and wanted to scream, but no sound came out of her mouth. He leaned over her, lightly patted her face.
“You’ll be happy to hear all the tests came back, and yes, you are a perfect match for Radu. He tells me you are his life’s blood. Now, relax, this won’t hurt a bit.”
She felt cold, wet gauze swab over the vein in the crook of her arm. He jammed in a cannula. It felt like a railroad spike. Of course it hurt, but she didn’t make a sound.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?”
The older man wheeled in a second gurney. Radu was on it—not strapped down like she was, but sitting up, looking excited, like a child. He was clean as a whistle, too—hair freshly washed, wearing a white gown. She could smell something antiseptic, like medical soap.
Roman smiled. “You’re our blood sister. And you brought us the pages. Radu has drunk the potion, and now he awaits the life that should have always been his.”
She started to struggle against the webbing. She twisted and turned, nearly displacing the cannula in her arm.
She heard him say, “I should have done this earlier.” He leaned over her again. “Here, a little something to make you calm.” He injected a needle into her arm. Almost instantly, she felt the fear fade. There was no pain in her arm, no sense of what was going to happen. He was saying, “I hope you can still understand me. We’re going to have to take a great deal of your blood, and probably do this two or three times, but the manuscript’s directions are clear. If we follow these steps, he will be cured, and you shouldn’t be dead.”