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.”
Rage bubbled and roiled. Alexander would pay, he would see to it. Still, when he spoke, his voice was calm. “You will call me tomorrow with good news, namely, the others have paid up and no more of our flock have slipped out of the fold.” He tossed the phone onto the leather seat across from him, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.
Roman would give him a day to talk the Money around. If Barstow failed, then Roman would take action. He knew Barstow was ruthless: he would kill his own mother if it would get him what he wanted. He wanted the drones very badly, so perhaps he would twist arms like he’d said. Why had the Money gone against the agreement—final payment, then drone delivery? And Alexander, who had been told there were no drones? That Roman was a crook?
He picked up his tablet, scrolled through the list
of names. Six Money were involved in Project Cabal, four men, two women, representing four different countries. Well, now four since Donovan’s face-plant yesterday and Alexander’s defection. So he’d lose a hundred-fifty-million pounds. Donovan’s death already improved the world. Had he really not paid Barstow? Had Barstow lied, deciding he could keep the money rather than giving it to Roman?
But Alexander. A shock, that one. Roman had liked Terry Alexander, worked with him on occasion, found him committed to keeping England safe from terrorism. Who had told him Roman had lied about the army?
Roman slipped a stamp onto his tongue, leaned his head back against the leather seat, and closed his eyes again. He thought back to the day, nearly two years before, when Barstow involved him in what was then an incredible dream. Barstow had proposed bringing together several wealthy individuals to fund the building of a drone army. Naturally, the governments of democratic nuclear nations couldn’t be seen supporting upstart democratic wars in Africa, not anymore. Even when the enemy was so clear—the nightly news was full of terrorist bombings, cars driving into crowds, innocents’ blood spilled on the streets—the select six were eager to finance the project but insisted they had to work behind the scenes so, whatever happened, they wouldn’t be held accountable, wouldn’t be targeted by ISIS. They knew to take the terrorists on openly meant they’d likely be handed their heads.
Very few people knew Roman was already trafficking in arms for the smaller nations fighting ISIS. He’d be lauded as a hero if he was found out, of that he had no doubt. Of course, ISIS would probably come after him. It was worth the risk.
But there was more—there was always more—and he accepted his hatred of ISIS was more personal, more deep and abiding.
He wanted a weapon of his own manufacture to take out his greatest protégé and now his greatest enemy, Caleb Temora.
Temora was one of the reasons he’d agreed to work this drone army black op with Barstow in the first place. The chance to destroy Temora the way Temora was trying to destroy him was too good to pass up.
Roman had hired Temora right out of high school, with no formal training. He was a natural, a brilliant coder. He had a way of seeing through one code to the next in a ballet of unexpected and elegant ways that produced remarkable results. Roman knew of only two others as brilliant with code—himself and his twin brother, Radu. If he were honest with himself, Roman saw Temora almost as a surrogate younger brother. He’d mentored him, taught him, groomed him. Roman was Temora’s mentor, Temora was his acolyte. He’d trusted him.
Yet Roman never realized how volatile and unpredictable Temora was. When he’d had no choice but to cancel one of Temora’s pet projects because he knew it simply wouldn’t pay off for them, he’d watched Temora change. He grew more formal with Roman, then skipped work, or when he showed up, he was drunk or stoned, and then one fine Friday, he’d finally disappeared entirely.
Roman did everything he could to find him.
Word soon leaked out that a girl called Aisha had recruited him after Roman had pulled his project. When Roman took apart Temora’s computer after he’d disappeared, he realized quickly Aisha was a black widow. But before Roman could find Temora, Radu discovered Temora had traveled to Syria and joined the caliphate.
To lose a computer genius of his caliber to ISIS, to know his former protégé was enabling their communications on the dark web, using private messaging services he’d developed for them, plummeted Roman into a well of hate.
Now, five years later, Roman and Radu had still failed to find him. He knew Temora was at the forefront, he recognized his work in the terror organization’s technology. And at Temora’s back, protecting him, stood the world’s most feared terrorists.
Yes, destroying ISIS was paramount, but Roman wanted more. He wanted to find Temora and stick a knife in his heart, let his twin, Radu, look on and applaud as Roman danced in Temora’s blood.
Roman knew in his gut Temora was behind the spectacular malware hack of Radulov’s flagship product MATRIX, Roman’s combined operating system and antivirus cybersecurity program. He’d pushed a worm through MATRIX, in essence taking every computer running the program hostage. It had his fingerprints all over it. No one else could have pulled it off, certainly no hacker he’d heard of could have managed to burrow into the first three layers of security on MATRIX. Only Temora, who knew the system as well as Roman himself.
And now he was demanding money from each business in the form of bitcoin to release it.
What to do about the errant worm that had dismantled hundreds of businesses, even the National Health Service, losing them millions of pounds if they didn’t pay up? How was Roman to secure MATRIX once and for all? No mystery there, he had to find Temora and kill him.
Roman simply had to focus his magnificent brain on what needed to be done. Roman knew his twin, Radu, could possibly secure MATRIX from any more Temora hacks, knew he’d work as hard and fast as he could, because Radu hated Temora with all the soul-deep hate Roman did, maybe more. Temora had befriended Radu, had shown him respect, given him endless praise and affection. He’d made Radu his god, and it was all a lie.
The pilot announced they would be landing in five minutes. Roman took a deep breath, fingered another microdose tab into his mouth. He now had to focus on how to deal with Raphael Marquez, his manager at the Scottish facility, the heart of Radulov. His people had failed to protect MATRIX, they’d let Temora in. What should he do?
He thought of Alexander again, and knew what he would do.
* * *
Corinthian “Corry” Jones, Lord Barstow, stared at his silent mobile. He’d known he was playing with fire when he’d allied himself with Roman Ardelean, but he prayed all the risk would be worth it. He thought about the first Corinthian Jones, who’d ridden on the field of Blenheim at John Churchill’s side in 1704, a hero to England, as much as Churchill, and Queen Anne had made him the first Viscount Barstow. All the men in his illustrious family through the succeeding centuries had schemed for England, had fought for England—all of them had accomplished great deeds.
And now, at last, he would follow in their footsteps. He would make his own mark. He would be known throughout history as a patriot and a hero. His name would be immortal. He smiled. He was smarter than those before him, because along with his fame, he would be wealthy beyond imagining.
Ah, but there were so many chess pieces on the board, so many moves to consider, all to bring down Roman Ardelean, the Black King, and secure the drone army. Today the game had started, the game that held his own life in the balance. And Ardelean had given him a brilliant idea.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Old Farrow Hall
Farrow-on-Gray, England
Hold on . . . wait a sec . . .” Mike saw Adam stare into space for a brief moment, then he started typing furiously. She heard a whoosh, and an email appeared. Adam looked excited.
“Click the link. I’m going to run you through an idea I just had.”
Nicholas ran the mouse over the link. The photo was a tight close-up of the bottom of the tiny drone. They could see four small rails running the length of the undercarriage.
Adam circled four spots on the bottom of the drone with his finger. “This drone doesn’t come with rails normally, which means they’re retrofitted. As you can see on the specs, they’re not part of the original unit. And I checked: this drone is a couple of centimeters bigger than the military-grade Black Hornet. Look here. It seems to have a trigger in the center. Do you see that?”
Mike said, “Yes, we do. Could it be a remote trigger? Maybe a trigger on a timer?”
Nicholas said, “Could be, but it would take a lot of coordination.” He sat back, drummed his fingers on his laptop. “No, my bet is whoever sent up the drone was watching from afar and, when the opportunity presented itself, pulled the trigger.”
Mike said slowly, “Like a sniper attack, only miniaturized, and controllable from, say, twenty, twenty-five feet.”
Nicholas touched the screen, using his fingers to swivel the angle. “This rail . . . when you turn the photo at this angle, you can see the channel. It’s hollow, probably carried a tiny needle or spike coated with the neurotoxin.”
Mike said, “If you look at the photo of the drone, it looks maybe fifteen feet away, so say the killer using the drone was another ten feet away.”
Nicholas said, “Okay, does the needle embed itself in the skin or prick the skin, then fall off onto the ground? If that’s the case, it could still be at the scene, possibly still coated with the neurotoxin, and still dangerous. We’ll have to find it.”
Mike said, “We can forget the Donovan crime scene. It’s most likely already too contaminated since it’s a well-trafficked area. We might have a shot at Downing Street, though—it’s a more controlled environment.”
Nicholas typed a quick text.
Can the Downing Street crime scene be swept for a piece of a small, hollow metal tube or a needle?
Penderley texted back almost immediately.
A metal tube? A needle? You just heard my groan, yes, Drummond? Will do.
Mike said, “This seems to be an entirely new weapons system. Has there been any talk of this, Adam?”
“There’s always talk, Mike, but about a drone firing frog spit? I’ll start looking in the dark web, but as far as I know, this is something new. There are lots of warnings about weaponized drones, but this is beyond anything I’ve seen. Like I said, the drone’s undercarriage looks like the base of a Black Hornet, but the military Black Hornets are mainly for reconnaissance and close personal use for soldiers in the field. This is something different. This one has been custom-made to kill.”
“Tear it apart, Adam, and let us know what else you find.”
“It would help if you could FedEx one to me. Just kidding. I’ll see what I can do.”
Adam’s portion of the screen went black. Nicholas saw Mike staring at the marked-up photo of the undercarriage of the drone.