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Mike felt the helicopter slow, then hover. She looked down to see the roof glowing white below her. She grabbed the thick black coil, got a good grip thanks to the sticky gloves. She thought of her father, and smiled. All set, Dad.
“Ready,” the pilot said. She leaned toward the door. Gareth patted her arm and said, “Luck.”
The pilot said, “First jumper, fast-rope on my mark—three, two, one—jump jump jump.”
Mike went straight down and landed lightly on the roof. She felt the rope tug, saw Nicholas come out the door behind her, fast. She pulled the weapon off her back and began scanning for trouble. With no warning, the helicopter lurched to the right, hard, its nose dipping, the rotors twisting counterclockwise, pushing for air.
Nicholas whipped past her head, only one hand on the wildly swinging rope, yelling, “Move, move, move!”
The chopper was burning, red and orange flames shooting into the sky above her. She heard the boom, realized it was about to land on her.
Everything happened in an instant—Nicholas’s horrified face, Mike sprinting hard across the roof, the helicopter tail lashing wildly around toward her. She couldn’t get away, so she went down flat on the roof, hands over her head, and prayed. She felt the harsh wind as the tail rotor passed only a few feet above her and smashed into the concrete ramparts on the roof. She smelled fuel, looked up to see the helicopter tip over the edge, the metal screaming, and fall, upside down, out of sight.
The fire on the roof was burning fast and hot. Please, the pilots got out, please. Wait, where is Nicholas?
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
To Belgravia
Harry sat next to a man he’d known most of his life, a supposed friend who wasn’t a friend at all. Did he believe his own lies? They were silent in the back of a Range Rover, heading at breakneck speed toward the Prince Edward Theatre.
“Once Ardelean is dead, all will be well,” Barstow said.
“Do you really believe that, Corry?”
“I have done nothing wrong.”
Harry didn’t say anything—what was there to say? He was worrying about both Michaela and his son, couldn’t help himself, even though he knew to his soul both were strong and smart. But the problem was neither of the two were afraid of anything. Show them a wild tiger, and they’d gladly hop into the pit and take him on. No, he couldn’t think like that. They’re all right. They’ll do what’s needed. They will be all right, his mantra, he supposed.
He turned to Barstow. “Tell me how you hooked up with Roman Ardelean. How did you know Ardelean would be able to supply your army?”
“Well, why not tell you? It was his falcons. Ardelean spoke once at a British Falcon Society meeting. He mentioned he was training them to attack drones. It’s all the rage—the French are doing it, with eagles and falcons, a new line of defense, and we’re doing it, as well. Being the genius he is, he built a few drones to let the falcons destroy them, discovered he had an affinity for building them. I saw how quickly he was able to prototype—it would have taken years to go through channels and achieve the same velocity—and realized I had an opportunity.
“The way he talked about the birds—they’re an obsession. He’s their master, but he’s also a hunter like they are. He cares for them himself, makes their hoods, makes them dependent on him, then trains them to see the drones as prey in the sky. It’s an incredible sight—the birds all wearing Kevlar, handmade breastplates and covers for their talons—the way they attack the drones.”
Both men fell silent. The city swept past. Rain had begun to fall, cold and gray, and the fog curled round the lampposts.
Barstow threw back his shoulders. “Listen, I told you why I did this, and it’s the truth—I am a patriot, like my ancestors. I wanted to make my own mark.”
Harry said quietly, “But the thing is, Corry, I believe Nicholas. You claim you’re a patriot, but what you really are is greedy. It was always more about the money than your love for England, your hatred of radical Islam.”
“No, no, that’s not true.”
“Yes, Nicholas was right. You lied to Ardelean, told him the investors hadn’t paid the final payment. You have that money. Where? In a series of accounts outside of England?”
Barstow wanted to kill this pompous, self-righteous sod, but he couldn’t. He knew he had to convince him to kill Ardelean, or Ardelean would kill him. He knew it. “You have to listen, Harry. Ardelean can ruin all of us, and he will if he believes it will save him. I had no idea when I took him on as a partner that he knows everything. Think of MATRIX. It’s in nearly every computer in the world. Don’t you understand? He has access to our files, our bank accounts, the websites we visit. Anytime he wants to know who MI5 is investigating, he can. Ardelean has an email server set up to blast our personal banking records, offshore accounts, Internet history—he has our secrets. Can’t you wrap your head around this? Did you learn nothing from WikiLeaks? The Internet, that’s the playing field, and the perfect place to hang the threat over our heads. It can never die. Whatever allegations he makes—and he will make them, if you doubt that, you’re a fool—generations will be affected by the secrets he will release. Nothing is sacred in his world, and now, he will use everything he has against us. You must end this tonight, Harry. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? You must eliminate him. You must kill him and dismantle Radulov.”
“I don’t want him dead. I want him brought to justice.”
Barstow would have grabbed his arm, but his hands were cuffed. “He’s too dangerous—he must die. We’re not going to survive this with him alive.”
“We’ve weathered worse.”
“You’re a blind fool. Roman Ardelean’s a murderer. He’s the enemy, not me.”
The lampposts were a blur outside the darkened glass. The city felt coiled and tense, ready for mayhem.
Harry said, “I do wish you would simply admit what you’ve done, what you set into motion, and for the basest of motives.”
