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Someone is watching the usual place. What have you done, Barstow? Who have you talked to?
I’ve done nothing. I give up. You’ve made your point. I have your money. The wire transfers will be completed within the hour, but you have to accept them yourself, in person. I need a thumbprint. You know how this works. Let’s be done with this, Roman. Take your money and give me my army.
There was nothing. Nicholas said, “We lost him.”
But the screen lit up again.
I won’t meet for wire transfers. You get me money, and we’ll talk. Call me when you have the cash.
Another pause, then:
And, Barstow, no more games. I know what you’ve done.
Nicholas said, “What does he mean, he knows what you’ve done?”
Barstow shrugged. “I don’t know. But he’ll come if I promise him cash. We can meet at the theater.”
Nicholas asked, “What theater?”
“The Prince Edward. Hamlet is playing.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “How much money are we talking about?”
“You heard me, I promised him the full amount.” Barstow shrugged again. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll take him, and the money won’t matter.”
“I suppose you have the one billion pounds, Corry, stashed in accounts out of the country?”
“No, of course not. I told you, the investors hadn’t paid up. I did keep a bit from their first payment, only fair. Again, I am not the criminal in this. I am a patriot who wanted only to fight terrorism. It is Ardelean.”
Nicholas looked at his father. His face was expressionless. No, there was something else—it was disappointment. In this man he’d known most of his life.
Harry looked away from Barstow. “Nicholas, we’ll split the teams. You’re on the rescue squad. I’ll go with Barstow and another team to take Ardelean into custody. And Nicholas?”
“Sir?”
?
?Be careful. You’ve already been shot in the side. I know, you’re fine, you’re always fine, but we have no idea what might be waiting for you inside that house. I—be careful, Nicholas.” Harry cleared his throat, said to Barstow, “Send the text to Ardelean. The theater it is.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Isabella didn’t know if it was night or day, nor did she care. The drug they’d given her had sent her into a surreal landscape made up of Voynichese language, but somehow perverted so she couldn’t read it. And the drawings, the green women and constellations and bizarre plants, what were they? She faded away, in and out.
Nor did she know how much time had passed, but now she was awake, clearheaded, and being wheeled into a stark white room that felt almost like a hospital suite by an older man, white white skin, his hair pale blond mixed with silver, no expression on his seamed face. She was tied down to the gurney in webbing—arms, legs, and neck. She knew what was going to happen. They were going to take her blood. How much? She saw Roman come toward her and wanted to scream, but no sound came out of her mouth. He leaned over her, lightly patted her face.
“You’ll be happy to hear all the tests came back, and yes, you are a perfect match for Radu. He tells me you are his life’s blood. Now, relax, this won’t hurt a bit.”
She felt cold, wet gauze swab over the vein in the crook of her arm. He jammed in a cannula. It felt like a railroad spike. Of course it hurt, but she didn’t make a sound.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?”
The older man wheeled in a second gurney. Radu was on it—not strapped down like she was, but sitting up, looking excited, like a child. He was clean as a whistle, too—hair freshly washed, wearing a white gown. She could smell something antiseptic, like medical soap.
