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 you 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.”
At this, Roman turned from Buckingham, eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s upset—pacing, moaning, pulling at his hair. He only calmed when I told him I would fetch you immediately.”
“Very well.” He said softly to his cabal, “Stay calm, I will be back shortly. Iago, you will remain with them. Take care, I hope you will not become another course in their dinner.”
Iago swallowed and nodded. He looked at the birds, knew he couldn’t show fear. They would smell it on him, like sweat from a pore, and attack. Would they like the taste of him as well as the grouse necks? Probably so. He imagined his master had trained them to like the taste of human blood. He held perfectly still and began telling them stories of ancient times in Romania, in a calm soothing voice, their own Scheherazade.
Roman walked quickly through the long hallways toward his brother’s rooms. He’d chosen this setting with both his twin brother and the cabal in mind. It was Radu’s refuge and a southern command post for the cast. It sat on the River Thames, with sweeping grounds and gardens to allow the falcons to fly free as often as possible, and private enough for Radu to occasionally sit in the sun in his small garden.
It was a palatial home and built to Roman’s exact specifications, in the Palladian style. Radu had named it the Old Garden, surely an odd name, but Roman hadn’t cared. This wasn’t Roman’s only home, but it was his favorite. It also provided him a bolt-hole near London, should the need ever arise.
His estate in Northampton, on the River Nene, in Billing, was sprawling and old, magnificent really, but Roman preferred London to the country, unless he wished to make a spectacular hunt—the cabal, the dogs, the drones whipping through the skies over the rabbit-laden hedges, it was a reward for them all.
He turned toward Radu’s wing of the house. Unlike Roman’s private quarters done up in his favorite bloodred, Radu’s were plain and simply furnished with very little color, all neutral grays and light blues. Anything to keep Radu calm, to keep him comfortable. Radu’s happiness was more important to Roman than anything, and anyone, even his cabal.
His ex-wife could attest to that. He shoved the brief thought of Leanne away and ignored the other image that came to mind, the bundled infant he hadn’t seen in four years. They made him question himself and his choices in the dark of the night, when his mind relaxed in the moments before sleep. But such questions made him weak, and weakness was not acceptable.
Nothing, no one, was more important than Radu.
Radu’s second-floor suite was designed as a large flat, with a separate kitchen and dining room, a marble bath and two bedrooms—though Radu rarely slept—a sitting area—though he rarely used it—and his computers. The western wall of the main living space was a liquid crystal screen, curved inward slightly, so high-end the technology wasn’t available outside of military installations. Few countries had the money to afford even a small screen of the material. Radu’s computer took up a ten-foot-by-twenty-foot area on the wall. It was a living, breathing, networked connection to the great world beyond, the mediator to the world Radu couldn’t face himself.
The floor above was Radu’s lab, a quiet place of white and metal, whirring machines, and antiseptic smells. His specialty was genetics. If he’d bothered with formal schooling, he’d be recognized as a leading expert in the field.
Radu was special, in so many ways. Early on, various doctors had diagnosed him with an uncommon derivative autism or an unusual sort of Asperger’s, or even a form of partial seizure disorder, none of which meant anything to Roman or Radu. But everything had changed when one psychiatrist had placed his brother in front of a computer for the first time. In the virtual world, Radu flew like Roman’s falcons. He was skilled, his genius clear. He was omnipotent, he was a god.
Radu didn’t like to speak in English or Romanian. He usually communicated with Roman in their twin talk, the brothers’ special language the two had been speaking since they were babies, probably in the womb. Even Iago had no idea what they were saying, and he had been with the family for decades and with the twins for the better part of their lives. In their twin talk, Radu was fluent, verbal, well-spoken.
When Roman arrived at his twin’s suite of rooms, he saw Radu pacing along the edge of the great room, clearly upset, slapping his palms to his head and keening, a frightening, lost sound.
Roman was at his brother’s side in an instant, his hand on his shoulder to stop his pacing. “Radu, look at me. What is wrong?”
Radu felt his brother’s strong hand on his arm and was reassured. He looked at his brother, saw his worry, his limitless love for him, and wished again Roman could stay with him all the time, though he understood that wasn’t at all possible. Roman was the face of their company, he was seen as the genius of Radulov Industries, the world’s premier cybersecurity firm. Roman was the one who sat down with heads of state, heads of governments, CEOs of companies and explained Radulov’s incredible operating system MATRIX, which not only connected them to the world but also protected them.
Until Temora’s attack this morning.
Roman would laugh as he talked about these meetings and tell him over and over that it was he, Radu, who was Radulov’s heart, its blood, its very life force. He and he alone was the center of Radulov, the creator of MATRIX. It was Radu who wrote the code his brother designed.
Radu felt calm flow through him, and he turned and pointed to the computer screen. “Look, Roman.”
It was then Roman saw a small flashing white skull and bones. It was Radu’s danger signal.
It meant more trouble ahead.