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“Since Agent Houston is already here in London on vacation, doubtless squiring about my long-time family friend Melinda St. Germaine, yes, you’ll have the airplane to yourself.”
“Hey, she’s the woman Ben got to know when he was there researching her mother’s papers about the Koaths, right?”
“Yes.” Nicholas grinned. “Don’t drink all the champagne in the plane’s fridge.”
But Adam was already gone.
CHAPTER TEN
The knowledge of the falconer must . . . extend to the countryside and to the game he wishes his hawk to catch.
—Emma Ford, Falconry: Art and Practice
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Back home, Roman threw open the doors to the mews. His cast of five falcons turned in unison toward their master, beaks clacking in welcome. Nothing made him happier than this ritual—feeding his birds, checking their wings, their talons, making sure they were in perfect condition, ready to hunt at a moment’s notice. He missed them when he had to leave; his travel was hard on them all. Falcons needed attending. Soon it would be time for them to molt, and it would be quiet and lonely in the mews.
“Hello, my lovelies. My beautiful cabal. Daddy’s home. Do you want your blood this morning? Are you ready for another glorious day?”
His two eagles, Victoria and James, sat in the loft, away from his falcons, silent, ever watching, bored and haughty, above the petting and cooing the falcons thrived on. The falcons were of varying ages and breeds, from the tiny female saker who kept to herself in the corner to the larger blue-gray peregrines, and the lone gyrfalcon, huge, beautiful, imposing as an emperor.
His falcons were Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley, and Lauderdale, named after King Charles II’s group of advisers back in the seventeenth century, ruthless schemers all, thus the name cabal was coined. He thought it was funny, since his cabal did his dirty work just as the king’s advisers had done so long ago.
Normally, the birds would never be able to stay together, in a single, huge mews, and unhooded, not without grave consequences, but Roman’s cast was special. He had a connection with them that went deeper than the usual falcon-falconer relationship, and that connection extended throughout the cast. They were working birds; they had jobs to do and took their work seriously. It couldn’t be said they were friends, but Roman knew they had a professional respect for one another.
He pulled on the gauntlet, whistled to Arlington, who was on his fist in a flash and flurry, accepting his offering of a grouse neck. He only fed them blooded meat three times a week, to keep them all at the perfect flying weight.
He repeated this process through the whole cast—they had manners, waited for their turns—until everyone was fed, and while he did, he told them of the day’s news.
“Soon I will have the name of the person who stopped Temora’s ransomware attack. Yes, he could be as big an enemy. When I find out his name and know what he wants, I will develop a plan.” He sighed, stroked Arlington’s feathers. “Only Temora would know how to find a weakness in MATRIX and break in.” He fluffed her wing, and she nipped his hand in affection.
Roman accepted bird after bird on the gauntlet, cooing, loving, and they loved him back. They would do anything for him, and he knew it.
“Ah, the kill this morning was perfect. Radu could not have done a better job. Hemmler, that miserable terrorist shite, died with his lips pulled back from his teeth and terror in the whites of his eyes. Only a single trail of blood went down his fat neck, so red, so fresh, almost too small to notice, but I saw it, and I thought of you, lovelies, how you would cause the same sort of wound with a well-placed talon.
“Soon, my lovelies, soon, it will be time for you to fly free over the city and report back to me. But not today. Today, we will hunt and y
ou will again dine on precious blood.”
He worked on their furniture, cut jesses—the supple leather growing warm in his hands—unpacked a new shipment of hoods, American made, the leather ultra-light, perfect for travel. The mews was a cozy place, his favorite in the world. His cabal not only stayed together, they also hunted together, shared the meat from a kill. They were family—predators, all.
As he worked, Joshua Bell played softly in the background. “Nocturne no. 20,” a perfect accompaniment to the light rain pattering against the windowpanes. When the rain stopped, they would hunt. The birds sat on their cadges, enjoying his company, heads cocked as if listening to the music.
A low male voice called quietly, “Sir.”
Roman stilled. Iago knew never to interrupt when he was tending to the cabal. The falcons turned at Iago’s voice, sudden tension filling the room, as if they, too, knew this was forbidden, and would willingly take a bite of still living, breathing flesh.
Roman didn’t turn, kept smoothing down Buckingham’s feathers. “What?”
Iago, the keeper of secrets for the Ardelean family for more than thirty years, knew the penalties for interrupting, but there was no choice. “It is Radu, sir. He requires your attention.”
“Can you not see I am taking care of the cast?”
“Sir, Radu expressed a level of urgency with his request.”
