Adam said, “That one I’ve seen. It’s based on the Voynich. They used it to build a completely new system that would allow them to infiltrate every computer that houses MATRIX.”
Gray whistled. “You know how dangerous that is? MATRIX is also on the servers at NORAD. And many other sites I wouldn’t want to allow control of to a couple of whack jobs who’ve built a new world no one can understand. They can highjack anything, everything, at any time. Very dangerous.”
“Radu is dead, Roman’s in the wind, and we’re responsible for figuring out what he might be up to. So instead of worrying, let’s keep pushing.”
Gray grinned. “Oh, how soon they grow up. I remember the days not long past when you would get yourself lost in the minutiae for fun.”
“Yeah, well, you guys made me a white hat for real, so now I have no choice but to be serious about it.” He went silent for a moment. “This scares me, Gray. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen a lot. If they’ve shared any of this with their people at Radulav Industries, and there are people out there capable of hacking these systems, we have no control anymore. I mean, we have to put out an advisory that all government computers cease using MATRIX at once, do you agree?”
Gray nodded. “Yes, we do. It’s a good lesson. We’ve never truly had control, my lad. We never have, and we never will. Wait, what’s this?”
He pulled a folder onto the screen, double-clicked it. A series of schematic drawings appeared, layering one on the other. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to find.”
“What is it?”
“The blueprints of Thames House, River House, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and Parliament, according to the labels. Detailed, thorough, and current. You better get Nicholas on the phone.”
“Dialing him now. What do you think it means?”
Gray said, “Here’s a lesson for you—always anticipate the worst.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
MI6 Safe House
Farm Street
Mayfair, London
On their drive to Mayfair, Mike chowed down on a bag of bacon-flavored crisps, well, really, chips, they’d gotten out of a gas station a block from MI5. She had a banana ready to wash it down. Nicholas drank coffee and ate a bag of vinegar-and-salt.
Mike upended the bag into her mouth to catch the last of the crumbs, then crumpled it and started peeling her banana. “Why can’t we have these in the U.S.? It’s not fair, Nicholas, really it’s not. I mean the chips, not the banana. I’ve never seen so many flavors, but seriously, these crisps—chips—are incredible. Wish I’d grabbed two bags.”
“I’ll get you a whole case for Christmas, how’s that sound?”
“Perfect.” She scooted across the seat and put her head on his shoulder. “Please tell me we’re going to catch Ardelean today. I don’t know if I’m up for any more bombs or fires or guns.”
“I have a good feeling about this meeting with Temora. Maybe he’ll know how to get him or where he is.”
Nicholas parked a block away, in front of a dark Jesuit church, and they went in on foot. The town house was a four-story tan brick with large-paned windows and wrought-iron Juliet balconies. The street was charming. Mike could only imagine how festive it would look at the holidays. Did Brits, she wondered, decorate for Christmas as elaborately as Americans?
She said, “Seriously nice place for a safe house.” Nicholas nodded.
“Hide in plain sight. Always better.”
They knocked, and the door opened. A stranger waved them inside. When the door shut behind them, Mike smelled chlorine, curry, and wood smoke. She saw a huge circular stairwell in front of them, very modern decor—minimalist and sleek.
Harry was waiting for them by the stairs. Father and son hugged each other, hard, then stepped back. They were men of few words, Mike knew, so she wasn’t surprised when Nicholas went right to business.
“Where is Temora?”
“In the basement. This house is equipped for four prisoners at once, or a team of operatives. Right now, there’s only Temora. There’s a pool, a gym, a server farm, and a bomb shelter, too. MI6 does it up right.”
“I’d like to speak to Temora alone.”
Harry started to protest, and Mike shook her head, but Nicholas held up a hand.
“Trust me. This guy is a hacker. If we all go in together, he’ll talk in circles just to piss the two of you off. I’ll go in alone, hacker to hacker, see if I can get the real story from him.”
Harry said, “Understand he’s angry, Nicholas. Don’t trust anything he says—don’t take it at face value. From all I’ve found in Barstow’s files, he plays games. We haven’t yet figured out what he wants.”
“Understood.”
Harry walked them to the back of the house, where the glorious center stairwell gave way to a set of metal stairs with rails that reminded Mike of a submarine. They went down carefully and through a door into a metal hallway, where the claustrophobic sense of being underwater continued. The basement was unlike the upper floors—it was utilitarian, cement walls, and reddish lantern lights.
The interior of the prison was cool and felt empty. The cells were quiet. Nicholas had no idea who had been kept behind the thick steel doors, nor did he want to know. He’d left this world behind years ago, and it made his skin crawl to have to work his way back in, even for a short time.
Harry stopped in front of a steel door on the right of the hallway.
“We’re right here if you need us. The mic is on in his cell. We’ll be in the central room at the end of the hall, just there. Call out if there’s trouble.”
“Thanks. I’ll be fine.” Nicholas stepped through the thick gray door. He wasn’t a fan of tight spaces and was relieved to see the basement prison was roomier than he’d expected.
A guard waited silently halfway down the hall. When Nicholas nodded, the guard opened another thick door, and Nicholas slipped inside, ignoring the crawling sensation of being locked inside a steel cage.
The man sitting on the bench was thin, pale, and his head hung low. His long lank hair hung around his face. He raised his head, and Nicholas saw the fierce, burning intelligence in his eyes.
Temora wasn’t more than twenty-five. He was studying Nicholas closely. Nicholas didn’t move, didn’t speak. Finally Temora said, “You’re Nicholas Drummond.” He sat back, crossed his arms, and said with a sneer, “So the big man’s come to gloat.”
“If you know my name, then you know me better than that. How did you end up here? Held by Security Services? Tried to go to the dark side, did you?”
“I did no such thing, and those bastards upstairs know it. I’m innocent.”
Nicholas sat down across from him. “Come now, Caleb, a private messaging system built expressly for ISIS operatives says differently. If you’d warned our government about the latest attacks, perhaps they’d believe you weren’t working for the other side.”
Temora shook his head, his long hair swinging back and forth. He muttered a curse, then said, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to serve two masters?”
“No. Because I’ve never thought there were two masters to serve, only one. Our government.”
Temora looked away, licked his cracked lips.
“Water?”
After a moment, Temora gave a tiny nod. Nicholas looked up at the camera in a silent demand. A minute later, there was a knock at the door, and a bottle of water was handed in. Nicholas cracked the top and gave the bottle to Temora, who drank it down in a few gulps.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Care to tell me why the bloody hell you’re here, Drummond?”
“I’d like to talk about an old friend of yours. Roman Ardelean.”
Nicholas could have sworn Temora sneered.
“I figured.”
“I need to know how to stop him, Caleb. He’s killed four important people here in England, not to mention a couple of dozen innocent people across Europe. He’s planning something. An attack of some kind. We need to know what it is.”