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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?”
