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Would they find him here at the Savoy? He’d used the Laurence Bruce disguise and a fake name. But they’d found out everything else. He listened to the news talk about the man with Lord Barstow, who had escaped serious injury—Harold Drummond, consultant to MI5.
He kept dialing both Iago’s and Radu’s private phones. Still no answer. He was worried, too, about his cast. He had instructed the cast to fly north to the estate, but Arlington refused to be parted from him. She’d flown to him last night without his calling her, her talons digging into his arm, drawing blood, and he’d had to smuggle her into the hotel under his coat. What did she know that he didn’t? Did she have some sort of extra-sensory ability to sense danger to him?
She sat now on the back of a chair, her talons gripping the silk, watching the television, as he was. He’d ordered room service for them both, asked for pheasant, raw, and a juicy steak, rare. The hotel, circumspect as always, delivered both without comment. He was grateful for Arlington’s steadying presence. He stroked her feathers, and she rubbed her face against his hand. He thumbed another dose of LSD onto his tongue.
He wondered if Barstow had confessed all to Drummond, if he’d admitted to his role in screwing over Radulov using Temora, and if Roman had met him at the Prince Edward Theatre, he knew he would be dead or in custody now. He had to assume that Drummond, that his son, Nicholas, that all of them, knew everything. He couldn’t afford not to assume that. Where was Temora? Could he find him? Find out if he’d tried to warn him by sending the video, or taunt him? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. In the end, Temora was the tool Barstow had used to destroy Roman.
He thumbed another microdose onto his tongue, then another. A strong, hard voice filled his head, his voice. Screw Temora, he was always jealous of you, he was taunting you, not trying to save you. No, you have to save yourself. You have to save Radu.
His company was in ruins, the stock price plummeting, his drone army was unpaid for, his brother deathly ill—ah, but they had Isabella and the pages. She would cure Radu. But it was time to flee. They’d take her with them, and she’d be his permanent blood bank. All would work out.
He thought of the billon pounds he’d never get now. Where had Barstow stashed the money? In foreign accounts, of course. He’d never find them.
Still, none of that mattered anymore. They were hunting him now. Why wasn’t Radu or Iago answering their phones at the Old Garden?
Finally he tapped into the house server, on his mobile, only to find someone had locked him out. Of his own server. His own house.
What was happening?
He patched in through a coded back door they wouldn’t be able to follow. From what he could piece together, Drummond, Caine, and a DI from Scotland Yard had dropped onto the house from a helicopter, and Roman’s elaborate defense system had worked perfectly. The antiaircraft missile hidden in the chimney had shot down the helicopter. The guns, gauntlet, and oubliette had all been triggered. All his defenses had worked as they should. But what had happened? Had Drummond stopped Isabella from giving her blood to Radu? Worry clawed and dug deep. He thumbed another microdose to slow his heart rate, to allow him to think clearly.
The internal cameras mounted inside the walls of the house had never been used before, and he’d forgotten all about them, until now. Radu hated the lack of privacy, but Roman had insisted there be a way to check on him when he wasn’t there, when he was traveling, or when he was hunting with the cast. In case something happened. In case he had a bleed and they couldn’t control it. In case Radu felt the pressure of his loneliness and opened a vein.
In case.
What he saw he couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t accept, but it was true—the lab was in shambles. People—strangers—shifted through the room, in and out of the view of the cameras. Tyvek-clad, they seemed to dip and glide around the space, their dance making it look more like a Level IV biohazard lab, one that dealt with research on hemorrhagic fevers and other extreme-risk biological hazards. They moved as if in outer space, slowly, carefully.
At that moment, he knew he couldn’t handle what he was about to see and slid two more tabs of LSD in his mouth to keep him calm, to keep him centered. To keep him distanced from this horror he was viewing.
He shut his eyes and allowed the drugs to take effect. When he felt his heart slow, and his breathing deepen, he reopened his eyes. Arlington watched him with great curiosity, love in her yellow eyes. As if she knew he needed her strength, she flew to the back of his chair. Her jesses trailed on his shoulder. She stood carefully, not allowing her talons to hurt her master.
Roman swallowed once more and looked.
His brother was small in death, curled on his side, his legs drawn up, like he had slept when they were children. They’d slept that way together each night, with legs drawn up to their stomachs, like two small commas back to back.
Radu was dead, Drummond had murdered him. Where was Isabella? Roman grew light-headed and so cold his teeth began to chatter as if it were he who’d lost his blood, not his brother.
He realized he was keening, like Radu when he was so upset he was beyond control, Arlington beside him, cheeping through her nose. Radu—losing him was something he’d fought against for their whole lives. He’d protected his brother, created a safe space for him, studied everything he could. Harassed, stolen, murdered—no life had been as sacred as Radu’s.
Arlington cheeped again. He swung out his arm, and she went straight to the fist. He pulled her to his chest. His arm was a mass of scars from years of falconry—Roman didn’t like the gauntlet, loved to feel the talons of his birds against his bare skin. But Arlington was gentle. She nestled her beak under his neck, and they stayed together for a very long time, the man lost in misery, the bird his comfort.
In the end, he stood, shut off the cameras so he wouldn’t see them touching his dead twin.
He set Arlington gently back onto the chair and started to plan.
Run?
By himself? But for what? To save and rebuild his company? To grow old alone with only his cast?
Everything he cared about was gone. He was wanted now—he was the hunted.
He’d heard a legend that the lost pages of the Voynich were cursed, and that’s why they were torn out. Did he believe the legend now? He thought again of all the people sacrificed in his search to find a blood match for Radu, all his intellect and enthusiasm he’d brought to bear on building Barstow’s drone army. And now there was nothing left. Nothing at all.
Barstow, so high in the British government, one of their favored sons, had proved himself a self-serving greedy monster. Roman saw all of those arrogant cabinet members gathering together, scheming how to use him, to steal from him. They’d stolen everything from him.
He would not let them win.
Roman stood tall, brought the bird to his fist, looked deep in her yellow eyes. He walked to the window, drew back the blinds. The city sprawled below him.
