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“No. Why?”
“I saw him in action today, along with Drummond. They know about the break in the code that allows us to spy on government agencies.”
“What are we going to do? How long do you think it will take them to trace the source of the code back to me and not that stupid Russian hacker you made up?”
Roman was quiet, his brain examining all the problems he was facing.
Radu said, after a moment, “What if they discover your drone army, the plan with Barstow? Roman, I’m frightened. Tell me what to do.”
He was his brother’s keeper. He felt calm flow over him, through him. “Radu, the most important thing is to take the lost pages of the Voynich and the woman so you can be cured. All the rest of it? Do not worry about it. I will take care of it.” But all he could think about was the quire, page 74, the woman who was Romanian. And he asked, “Dr. Marin, what do you know of her?”
Radu told him what he already knew, then added, “She did have a twin, who died at the age of four. No cause of death given.”
“Ah, so it makes some sense why she can read the Voynich.”
“Yes, it does.”
He felt victory close, within his reach. His heart sped up. A search of a lifetime, if only— He slipped another microdose in his mouth. He needed to think, needed the calm it brought him. The drug hit his system, and a low, warm hum started through him. He took a deep breath, then another. He rang off and immediately called Raphael in Scotland. “You will begin work immediately on a new patch.” He dictated a statement to be released to the press, then another longer blog post to the Radulov website, explaining each step of the situation and the remedies they were providing.
Raphael took the notes silently, then asked, “Should we open a bug bounty to the outside community, sir? Offer five thousand pounds?”
“And have every hacker in the free world attacking our software? No. But you can say we’re hiring new software engineers to specifically work on this issue.”
“I’ll get HR on it, sir. I will say, we’ve been receiving a great deal of external activity, mostly routing through the United States and Britain. The U.K. and U.S. governments are probably looking at us, trying to see if we’re secure.”
“They’d be idiots not to. Add a note to the press release that we are cooperating fully with the U.S. and U.K. investigations into our breach, and rest assured the software is safe to use once the update is installed, blah, blah blah.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, you handled our other little issue, yes?”
“Yes. Everything is secure and safe, loaded on the ship, waiting for your word.”
“Excellent. Good work, Raphael. If you keep this up, I won’t even hold Temora’s breach against you. Get the press release out as soon as possible, and upload the blog ten minutes after the release is public. Oh yes, send that prick Nicholas Drummond a list of our recently terminated employees. He thinks the breach is coming from the inside, and it will keep them busy. Go ahead and put Temora’s name on the list, maybe they can catch him.”
“But—”
He hung up. It was odd. Part of him was fully aware he should be very worried indeed that the company he’d spent years to build might collapse. But another part, the greater part, was consumed with the pages from the Voynich and finding the cure for Radu.
If only Drummond had died like he was supposed to. And that made him think about his escape plan. He had a plane ever on standby. Take Radu and the cast to the small island in the South Pacific he’d prepared for just this occasion. Stage his death—he pla
nned to drown off the coast of Scotland, everyone would assume he killed himself after his company’s implosion—and make his way to his family.
Simple, straightforward. He hoped he wouldn’t have to, at least not yet. Moving Radu would be difficult at best, and Roman wanted to find a cure before he had to do so.
His mobile rang. It was Barstow. Roman listened, and then he hung up, without saying a word.
From one minute to the next, it seemed everything was unraveling, and none of it was his fault. He remembered the Money’s enthusiasm, their optimism, their commitment to Project Cabal seven months before, after his demonstration in the Nubian Desert. What had happened? And there was Temora, thumbing his nose at him, destroying Radulov, and the Voynich, always the Voynich, and Dr. Isabella Marin.
Focus, focus. He would act, he had to act. And another would pay for betraying him. And Barstow. He’d be a fool to trust him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Govan Shipyards
Glasgow, Scotland
Paulina Vittorini stood on the docks, a hand to her eyes, the wind off the River Clyde plastering her long, wide-legged pants against her. Though the day was gray and overcast, the shipyard was humming with activity. Massive cranes moved through the sky, hundreds of workers swarmed the partially built Type 26 frigate in dry dock, Britain’s newest line of maritime defense.
