“What kind of weapon? I mean, it’s a super small drone, so the weight of any larger ordinance, a gun or a missile, wouldn’t be sustainable. Drones like this are mainly used for surveillance. What are you thinking?”
“Let’s see.” Nicholas clicked a few times, and Mike watched the screen break into segments—Adam, the drone, the specification blueprints of the official Black Hornet devices, and a close-up shot of the undercarriage of their mystery drone.
Nicholas said, “If this was not a surveillance drone, it must have a delivery mechanism for a weapon that can kill. Hold on, Penderley’s sent us a message. Several attachments.”
Nicholas scanned the contents of the email.
“I’m reading from the files Penderley sent over. This is the first I’ve seen of this, so bear with me—interesting, Chapman Donovan’s death was heart failure brought on by poison. He had something called epibatidine in his system, a neurotoxin derived from a small South American tree frog. According to the report, epibatidine was once explored as a substitute for morphine but was deemed too toxic, too unpredictable.”
Mike asked, “They get this neurotoxin off frigging frogs?”
Adam said, “Epibatidine was originally derived from the Ecuadorian poison-dart frog. Which means whoever’s using it bought it online, because when these particular frogs are bred in captivity they’re almost always nontoxic. Their alkaline levels aren’t the same when they don’t feed on insects in the wild. Whoever killed Donovan either went to Ecuador and harvested the poison from the frogs, or he or she bought or stole it from somewhere. You know you can purchase anything online now, legally or otherwise.”
They both looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“What? I watch the National Geographic channel.”
Mike laughed, then said, “Logic says we have a small drone capable of delivering a neurotoxin. So the delivery mechanism must be a small tube of some sort filled with the frog neurotoxin?”
“Yes,” Nicholas said. “More important, why were these two men targeted?”
CHAPTER SIX
Falconry: The art of training a raptor to hunt in cooperation with a person and to return to the falconer on signal.
—Wingmasters.net, “The Language of Falconry”
Over Northern England
The G650 blew north, a quick hop from London to Roman Ardelean’s headquarters near North Berwick in Scotland. He’d been asked why he’d elected to set his headquarters in Scotland. And not where? he’d wondered. Romania? A stupid question. Just because he was of Romanian ancestry, he was an Englishman and a businessman who understood the tax structure was better here, not to mention he wanted his headquarters near to home so Radu could run things more easily. He checked his email and the news reports, smiled, and made a brief, encrypted phone call. The voice on the other end was furious, just as Roman knew he’d be, and it pleased him.
“What do you think you’re up to, Ardelean? Murdering Hemmler in front of 10 Downing Street was insane, and less than twenty-four hours after Donovan died, and in exactly the same way? Are you trying to ruin all of us?”
“Why so upset, my lord? Hemmler was dirty to his bones, and you knew it. MI6 was gathering evidence on him. He was communicating with ISIS, was planning to give them land, legitimacy, and weapons to stake their claim in Europe. I did you a favor eliminating him—no, I’ve done the whole world a favor.”
“Yes, yes, he was a traitor to his country. I’m glad he’s dead, but you didn’t need to draw so much attention to yourself. And what about Donovan? I know he was balking at the amount of money he was still expected to pay for his share of the drone army, but I would have talked him around. Why did you kill him?”
“Because he wasn’t innocent. When I was looking into Hemmler, I saw a string of private messages that seemed odd. When I explored further, I realized they were between Donovan and Hemmler. I took a quick peek inside Donovan’s computer to make sure, saw even more correspondence on a private chat. Well, it wasn’t private to me. He broke our nondisclosure agreement, talked to Hemmler about supplying him with weapons. He knew Hemmler was in bed with ISIS, and yet he still wanted to deal with him. He was a threat to Project Cabal, and I eliminate threats.” He paused a moment, then added, “I guess you didn’t know he moved most of his assets to five separate Swiss banks? Why? I think he was brokering some major deal with Hemmler, one not to our benefit, and wanted cover. Donovan was playing fast and loose with his loyalties, and of no use at all to us. In fact, if I hadn’t eliminated him, he would have told everyone about our drone army. Good riddance.”
Barstow sputtered, then said, “I always thought Chappy Donovan was a good man, not to mention he was as rich as Croesus. And he always wanted to go along with my ideas, like Project Cabal. You’re certain? I’ve heard nothing like this.”
“Believe me, Barstow, since he was one of the six Money, you can count on the fact I’d be certain. Perhaps as their hotshot consultant, you can get MI6 up to speed.”
There was dead silence, then Roman said, “Now let’s get to what’s important. Today is the day, Barstow. I’m officially notifying you the drone army is assembled and ready to ship out. It’s payday. Nearly one billion pounds, minus Donovan’s share which we never were going to get in the first place.”
“All right, here’s the truth. The rest of the Money are balking, don’t get me wrong, not for the same reason as Donovan. No, they want the drones immediately, before they pay their final installment.”
“That wasn’t our deal, Barstow. No money, no drones.”
“I know, and so I told them. I’ll speak to them all again, try to talk them around. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”
Roman felt a tidal wave of rage, quickly thumbed a tab onto his tongue. What was going on here?
Barstow’s voice grew conspiratorial. “Roman, you know why we’re doing this. You know how vital our project is. Think about delivering those drones today. Think about how the army you created—your great army of death to the terrorists, all the Islamic radicals who want to subjugate the world. You can begin your war to destroy them. But only if you ship them immediately.”
“You are the conduit, Barstow. Convince them, remind them this was the agreement they signed.”
“Yes, yes, I will remind them.”
“Don’t take that tone with me. You forget, Barstow, you approached me with your vision. Not only did you want me to build you a private drone army, you now want me to deliver before the accounts are settled. What sort of businessman would I be to allow such a thing? The Money will pay up, and I will turn over the drones, happily.” He paused. “Or there will be consequences. Remind them what happened to Donovan.”
“The rest of the investors aren’t stupid. They already realize you killed one of them. They’re mad and scared.”
“Feel free to tell them why, Barstow.”
“They won’t believe Chappy Donovan was a traitor.”
Roman laughed. “Do you want me to send them the proof?”
“No!”
Roman heard Barstow’s labored breathing. He hoped he didn’t stroke out.
Barstow said, “There’s something else. Terry Alexander notified me, said he’d been told by a reliable source this was all a scam, that there wasn’t a drone army, that you planned to keep the money. He said he was out of the project, but he assured me he wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”
A punch to the gut. Who would have told Alexander that?
Roman said, “Of course you assured him the rumor was false.”
“Yes, yes, of course I did, but look, I’m sorry, but I think he might be lost to us.”
“My billion pounds is shrinking rapidly, Barstow.” Roman added quietly, “Did you trace the source of this rumor?”
“I can’t, and believe me, I’ve tried. Sorry, Roman.”