“Now, we need to get started before the sun sets. Please sign the nondisclosure agreements, pass them back to me, put on your ear guards and goggles, and let’s get this show started.”
There was still grumbling, particularly from Paulina Vittorini, the Madonna bitch, as he thought of her, but finally even she signed the agreement. He wondered idly if he was the richest among the six of them. His firm, Radulov Industries, manufactured cybersecurity software that resided on almost every modern computer in the world. Apple and Microsoft now shipped with Radulov’s flagship program MATRIX already installed as part of their most recent operating systems. In many ways, he’d saved the computer age from hackers and terrorists.
Not that he wasn’t humble about it all, at least in public.
It was fitting he’d made his money in cybersecurity, because cyber warfare was the next—the only—logical step. The terrorists had their own weaponry, their own drones and IEDs—improvised explosive devices—and, in some extreme cases, planes. They moved through the dark web unseen, unstoppable, buying and selling drugs and weapons, accumulating wealth and influence, recruiting more and more lost souls to their cause.
Roman’s entire life had been built on preventing the flow of negative information, stopping black hat hackers in their tracks, protecting the vulnerable, the ignorant, the gullible. His values had made him rich; his brilliance and charm had made him popular. In the last piece Forbes did on Roman and Radulov Industries, they’d called him Cyber Superman—he was Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and Elon Musk rolled into a single brain, with a touch of Tony Stark’s humorous arrogance. He’d liked that.
When Barstow had approached Roman about an off-book black-ops program he’d pictured in his mind—specifically, putting together a private drone army to help the smaller countries the United Kingdom wasn’t able to legally protect—Roman was impressed. He’d jumped at the chance to stop the evil that was spreading unchecked across Africa.
Barstow had quietly assembled the Money—the six people here for the demonstration who would fund the operation, if, that is, they were impressed enough to transfer half the total funds required to a special account Barstow had set up. When the drone army was ready to ship, the other half of its total cost, two billion pounds, would be paid. Barstow had also assured him the Money had the resources to move the drones into place. As for Lord Barstow, he referred to himself as Roman’s partner, a small conceit Roman allowed him. He would remain the financial bridge between the Money and Roman. He himself wasn’t rich, merely comfortable, but through his title, lineage, and government contacts, he knew everyone who counted. Roman was amazed Barstow had the brains and guts to set this plan into motion and equally amazed he’d managed to convince six wealthy people to pay for it.
It was the make-or-break moment for Roman, but he wasn’t worried. It was the perfect time—the sun was beginning to set, the sky turning lovely shades of pink and orange, signaling the ending of a very good day. It was time to show Barstow and the Money what they were going to get for their incredible investment of two billion pounds.
In the distance, there was a small village crafted by Roman’s people, no living souls inside, of course, with everything a small desert village would have—huts, cardboard people and goats, even a rooster, several large outbuildings for livestock. They’d spent three weeks here in the bloody-hot desert putting it all together.
Roman grinned to himself.
Now came the fun part.
He nodded to Cyrus Wendell, his right hand for nearly ten years now. Cyrus had worked with him on the development of the drones. He was the only one of Roman’s people he trusted to be there for the demonstration. Cyrus pressed a button on the laptop. Roman lifted his arm, now encased in leather. His wrist held what looked like a small computer keyboard and screen.
“All of the weapons are remotely operated through a computer program I’ve written, controlled by this small device on my forearm. As you can see, this weapons system is portable, discreet—you could even take it on a commercial airline flight. It’s rechargeable and runs on a proprietary lithium-ion battery for long life. It has the latest in Radulov’s biometric security—iris coding and facial recognition, with a DNA backup, as well. Should your device be stolen, or, heaven forbid, you’re forced to unlock it against your will, the system is built to recognize distress in your facial features and take an immediate DNA sample to make sure no one else is trying to control it. If it’s not you, it will shut down.”
Paulina Vittorini, who ran a wealthy shipyard for her family and was considering a run for MP, said, “Impressive, Mr. Ardelean. These measures concern me, though. Are you expecting people to try to steal the technology off our wrists?”
Roman smiled, a hint of flirt on his face. “Wouldn’t you? I take nothing for granted in this world, Ms. Vittorini. Protecting my people and their technology is paramount.
“Now, let me show you what you’ll be getting for your buy-ins.”
Roman pressed the button on his wrist, said nothing, waited three seconds.
It sounded like a swarm of bees, coming closer, closer. The murmurs stopped. The five falcons went on alert, but with a muted command from their master, sat back, yellow eyes watchful.
Seemingly out of nowhere, the drones flew directly over the tent and the presentation space, then stopped and hovered overhead. Roman had included six different breeds—he saw the drones like he saw his five falcons: each had a strength, a pedigree, a purpose. From his tiny hovering dragonfly-like Night Hawk to the fifteen-foot long flagship, the Geode, each rose up in unison and got in line, ready for his command.
“Off you go,” Roman said quietly, pressed a button, and they were over the makeshift village in a few moments.
The drones circled their targets, shooting off their specifics weapons—one dropping IEDs on the village, another landing and placing a bomb on the ground before soaring back into the air. Gunfire spurted out of another, loud and deadly, then was almost drowned out by the whistle of a missile launching from the Geode. To the delight of the Money, the small fabricated city and all its cardboard props were destroyed within a minute. Roman swiped a finger on the screen, and the strikes stopped. The drones came back toward them, hovering serenely twenty feet in the air.
Roman handed off the biometric glove to Barstow, who pulled it on and flew the Geode through the skies, trying hard to crash it, marveling at the auto-stabilization, then, as Roman watched, Barstow smiled slyly and dropped a hellfire missile on the city’s smoking ruins.
As flames shot into the quickening night, the Money burst into applause, talking over one another, surprise, awe. It pleased Roman inordinately.
Chapman Donovan said in his gravelly smoker’s voice, “Ardelean, this is brilliant—well done. Well done, indeed. Ah, together, we will halt radical Islam in its tracks! All of you, do we give Mr. Ardelean the go-ahead?”
Applause and enthusiastic nods all around.
Vittorini asked, “What does the little drone do?”
“The Night Hawk is a personal-protection drone capable of delivering a needle-size weapon into the neck of a target from twenty-five yards away. So if you need to assassinate someone, you’ll want to order a few of them.”
Barstow laughed, almost too heartily, gave Roman an avuncular smile, and slapped him on the shoulder. “And whom among us knows when such a need might arise? You’ve thought of everything.”
“Thank you, my lord. I’m glad you’re pleased. Now, I have one last display for you before we get down to business.”
Roman gestured with his hand and gave a short whistle. With a piercing shriek, the falcons took off as one, as if they, too, were programmed by Roman’s computers. The Money gasped in surprise when the falcons attacked the drones, swooping down, grabbing them by their bellies and whipping them to the ground. Within a few minutes, Roman’s small drone army was destroyed.
He loved the looks of shock on their faces and said, in his charming leader’s voice, an eyebrow ar
ched, “You were not expecting a counteroffensive? We must have a proper defense to protect us from the future of unmanned warfare. If the terrorists attack us with their drones, there is nothing we can do but try to shoot them out of the sky, which rarely works. Properly trained falcons and eagles, on the other hand, can watch for incoming drones and eliminate them before they get anywhere near their targets.”
He was pleased Vittorini looked properly impressed. “But how do they not get hurt by the propellers?”
“Their legs and breasts are wrapped in impenetrable specialty Kevlar.”
From the looks on their faces—Barstow had been right—they were all in, as eager as children on Christmas morning. It was a victory for Barstow, whose plan it was, and a victory for Roman, who’d set his own genius to the drone development and succeeded beyond all expectations.
He smiled, nodded. “Please feel free to join me back in the tent, and I will review our production steps with you.” And he bowed. “Your private army awaits. I will be there in a moment—I need to give my falcons their reward.”
Cyrus wheeled up a cart of five dead rabbits. The Money stuck around to see the falcons tear them apart, one rabbit to each falcon, and marveled at their perfect conduct.
And then they followed Roman to the tent, their steps light, each face glowing with enthusiasm and hope.
THE FIRST DAY
TUESDAY
Peregrine falcons have been clocked at reaching speeds of 242 miles per hour while diving for prey, making them the fastest recorded animal ever. To allow them to reach such mind-blowing speeds, these birds boast aerodynamic torsos and specially pointed wings, as well as adapted cardiovascular and respiratory systems that allow them to beat their wings up to four times per second without fatiguing.
—SMITHSONIAN MAGAZINE
CHAPTER TWO
10 Downing Street
London
The trip from the Savoy Hotel to the prime minister’s residence at 10 Downing Street normally took eight minutes, but the diplomatic run—the police escort clearing the streets before his black SUV—was faster. Heinrich Hemmler had only five minutes of silence to pull on the mask of the diplomat to give a good show to the PM, and that meant, of course, he had to hide his own excitement at what was going to happen. For three years, he’d kowtowed to the chancellor, the silly cow, and worked tirelessly behind the scenes, making contacts on the sly with those who had the power and the money. And now, all his plans were coming to fruition. The chancellor had sent him here to convince the PM to allow more refugees per year into the United Kingdom. Oh yes, he would give his spiel to the PM and then he would leave. No one knew what Hemmler was really doing in London, except his two personal security guards, who were paid handsomely to keep their mouths shut. There were five more guards in the car front and back, and he was as safe, probably safer, than England’s PM, always.
After his meeting with the PM he would meet with a radical imam in absolute privacy, to discuss another agreement to add to his wealth. Soon, he would drape his wife, Marta, in jewels, send his children to the best private schools in the world, pay off his jewel-of-an-estate snuggled in the midst of the Schwarzwald, and have more than enough euros left over to send his young mistress, Krista, to visit her bed-ridden mother in Geneva.
The deal he’d made with ISIS was excellent, for him, of course, but not such a good deal for those who might die in the process. But that was life, wasn’t it? You never knew when your own might come to an abrupt end. And anyway, who cared about those people he didn’t know, had never seen? They were of no consequence—they didn’t matter.
The agreement he’d made with the splinter Irish group was excellent, as well, but since his contact, Chapman Donovan, had died yesterday—dropped dead of a heart attack right outside his home, the British news had reported—Hemmler would need to find a new partner. He’d liked Chappy Donovan, always up for a Cuban cigar and a little cheat on his wife.
He needed the weapons to hand over to his friend the imam, but he wasn’t worried. In this world, weapons were easy to come by. Weapons brokers were a dime a dozen.
No matter, he’d positioned himself perfectly in the government so when the chancellor’s policies of open borders backfired as a result of multiple deadly terrorist attacks, she would be blamed and the country’s confidence in her would plummet. And he, Vice Chancellor Heinrich Hemmler, would have no choice but to call for a special election to replace her. He would, of course, be elected in her place. And then he would discreetly settle his ISIS brethren in a small town in Bavaria as their foothold in Europe. They’d paid him a lot of money and given him their word there would be no further acts of violence in Germany once the chancellor was gone.
It was a pity no one would ever know how he’d pulled off secret negotiations with terrorist leaders. No one would ever know it was he who had protected Germany—only a small number of sacrifices to be made along the way. That he was making himself rich in the process was only fitting. He was his country’s savior. The deal he’d made was brilliant.
A gentlemen’s agreement, if one could call those rapacious deathmongering murderers gentlemen, but he trusted them to keep their word. Money had already been deposited in one of his private bank accounts. After the bombings in Frankfurt, Berlin, and Munich, the tide would turn irrevocably against the chancellor, and no one else would have to die, at least no more Germans. He slid a hand down his yellow silk tie and hummed, low in his throat. Nothing but silk and Savile Row for him from now on.
The car pulled onto Downing Street and stopped. Heinrich waited for a beat, as his security team built a protective wedge for him to step into.
Let’s go, let’s go, let’s get this ridiculous business over with.
“All clear,” one of his guards said as he opened the door and allowed Hemmler to step into the wedge onto the street. He moved fast, as always.
There were only five steps to the entrance. He took the first step into a very un-English warm and clear day.
Second step.
Third.
Something bit his neck, almost a lover’s bite, as Krista liked to do. He slapped his hand to the spot, but nothing was there. White-hot pain, everywhere, he staggered. His eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees, clawing at himself as a burst of hellish fire coursed through him, burning him up from the inside.
He heard shouts, felt hands lifting him, dragging him to the doors, his knees scraping the cement, as he was manhandled inside Downing Street. He heard the grand doors slam shut behind him. He clearly heard shouts for help, but he couldn’t talk, couldn’t move. Or breathe. They laid him on the carpet in the foyer. It felt so soft under his cheek, but only for an instant, because the flames were consuming him, making him want to scream, only he couldn’t.
Heinrich knew he was dying. He had no chance to pray for forgiveness, nor did his life flash before his eyes. He only had a brief thought of his wife and his mistress before he actually felt his heart slowing and the softness of the rug beneath his cheek, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
Old Farrow Hall
Farrow-on-Gray, England
Nicholas Drummond looked through the wide breakfast room windows that gave onto the beautifully groomed back gardens, in full midsummer bloom. He saw the labyrinth, made up of thick yew bushes, vivid green, stretching up as tall as a man, and beyond, a slice of a trail that led into the home wood. He turned when his grandfather came into the room. Eldridge Augustus Nyles Drummond, eighth Baron de Vesci, was still going strong at eighty-four, still the head of the multibillion pound enterprise Delphi Cosmetics, but now he appeared upset. He sat at the table and stared down a moment at his lumpy porridge, automatically poured milk and a fistful of brown sugar on top, and took a quick bite.
“Bollocks,” the baron said and shoveled in another bite.
“What’s wrong, Grandfather? Are the Saracens nearly at the wall?”
The baron smacked his fist on the table, making his teacup bounce
. “It’s crazy, boy, that’s what it is. My IT man, Giles Fourtnoy, just called, said it’s ransomware, said these miscreants are demanding a million pounds in—bitcoins? What the devil is a bitcoin anyway? And a million of them? Would they fit in a teacup or an armored van? Giles said our sites are down until we pay up, and he can’t fix them. But I knew you could, Nicholas, and so I told Giles. First tell me, what is a blasted bitcoin?”
This was not good. Ransomware had hit England, a main target the National Health Service—whose security was laughable—but not Delphi Cosmetics, with its top-notch security, which meant these buggers were good. He figured how he was going to fix things, which had to include Covert Eyes’s cyber expert, Adam Pearce. He remembered everyone celebrating when Adam had turned twenty. He said, “A bitcoin is a form of monetary recompense used primarily online to pay for services rendered. They don’t exist in the material world, unfortunately. They’re virtual. Most of the services unsavory, as you’ve just learned. I’ll try to save your systems from the ransomware attack without your having to pay anything.”
Nicholas’s grandfather looked relieved. “Well, that’s why you came for a visit, isn’t it, only neither of us realized it when you and Michaela drove up on Sunday. Well, get to it, my boy, we stand to lose millions every single day the direct delivery systems and websites are down. And you know Giles, he’ll pull out all his hair if there’s any delay, and he doesn’t have much to begin with.”
Nicholas said more to himself than to his grandfather, “They must have a back door to stop the attack once they’re paid. I’ll find it, disable the lockdown on Delphi’s systems, push some nasty code their way to disrupt the attack, which will not only release your systems but also should stop the attacks elsewhere, as well.”
His grandfather said, “Good, get to it. Oh yes, Nicholas—I want to see one of these demmed bitcoins. Bitcoins sound as silly as the name you and Michaela gave your FBI team—Covert Eyes. What is a covert eye, I ask you? You skulk about without anyone seeing you? Now, that’s a laugh. The earth shakes when you’re in town.”