CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon, which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Roman soothed Arlington, lightly rubbing her feathers, which he knew the falcon loved. He hated having to need anyone, but he knew he needed this woman who lay terrified, her stomach bleeding. He set Arlington on her perch and turned back to her. “You are Romanian.”
“Yes, you know that.”
“Your mother?”
“Didn’t I tell you? She was a gymnast, from Walachia. She’s dead now. You can’t hurt her.”
Walachia. The birthplace of his ancestors.
It had to be true, she was of his line. But her last name—Marin.
“Your father is American?”
“Yes.”
He felt excitement, a sense of victory, very close now. “Hold still and it won’t hurt. I’ve become very good at this.” He pulled out a kit to take her blood, swabbed alcohol on her tethered arm, then expertly drew off a vial. He needed to run it immediately.
“What are you doing?”
Roman said, “You’re the daughter of a gymnast from Walachia—is your mother Nadia Gabor?”
“Nadia Gabor Marin.”
He pulled up a chair beside her. “She was Gypsy stock.”
Isabella said nothing, stared as he ran a long white finger down the length of her arm. A fine red drop of blood sat in the crook of her elbow. “What are you going to do with my blood? What is this all about?”
“How far back do you know your bloodline?”
“What?”
“Answer me!”
“I don’t—not very far. If you’re at all familiar with Romanians, you’ll know many of the records are lost. The only way we can find each other is through online DNA testing, which of course we’ve done as most everyone has. It didn’t reveal very much, only a few matches.”
“Excellent. I will look on your computer and see what I can find. I want to see every match you’ve made.”
“Tell me what this is all about. You’re taking my blood and you’re probably going to kill me anyway. Why not tell me why you’re doing this?”
Roman smiled at her, patted her arm right above the Band-Aid he pressed down. “You won’t die, not for a long time.” He studied her a moment, recognized her on some very deep level.
“Why not tell you the truth? My brother, my twin—Radu—suffers from a rare form of hemophilia, one untreatable by modern medicine. The Voynich tells how to cure blood illnesses, but there were missing instructions, missing ingredients. I’ve read the pages you supposedly found, and you know what? The instructions are now complete. I can mix the potion and know it’s correct. But I always knew Radu’s illness was different from the others in our line, not like the blood diseases discussed by the twins in the Voynich. When it became clear that only blood from our line would help him, I began a search all over Eastern Europe. It appears Romanians live everywhere. Wherever I’ve traveled, I’ve taken Romanian blood, but have never found a perfect match.
“And now I have you. If you are my perfect match, then with the final instructions in the pages, the potion, and your blood, we’ll cure Radu.”
Her pages held the final answers? Her blood was his perfect match? No, it was crazy. He believed she was of his familial line? “Why can’t you use your own blood?”
“Because my blood has the same defective gene within it, though I don’t suffer from the disease. As I said, I need blood from our familial line.”
“What line are you talking about?”
“And here I thought you were clever. Whose do you think?”
She shook her head.
“You and I and Radu, I believe we are all direct descendants of Vlad Dracul III. And once I’ve tested your blood, I will prove it.”
She was afraid, her stomach hurt from the falcon’s sharp claws, and yet this astounded her. “You know he’s not really Dracula, don’t you?”
He wanted to strike her but didn’t. Other than Radu, she was the most important person in the world, at least her precious blood was. He managed to shrug while he thumbed a tab onto his tongue. “And how do you know? We are living proof—direct descendants, one with diseased blood, another, the stronger, who will cure him.”
“So you think you’re a vampire?”
“You stupid woman, you think I’m mad? Of course I’m not a vampire in the movie sense, nor is Radu. I told you, Radu and I are descendants of Vlad Dracul, a very real man. Am I born to blood? Do I drink it?” He smiled at her and shrugged again.
She wanted to scream, she wanted to curse, but she was helpless. If she was a match, if he proved she was in the direct line, no, he wouldn’t kill her, he’d keep her around as his permanent blood bank for his brother. She felt grief flood her, grief for herself, grief for Gil, never to take another amazing photo, never to know a life with her, never to have children. She wanted to weep, but instead, she whispered, “Why did you kill Gil, my fiancé? He had done nothing to you. You cut his throat. Why?”
Roman lightly ran a fingertip over her eyebrows, smoothing them. “Ah, I suppose because he was there. I didn’t cut his throat, by the way, not exactly. Truth is, too, I am rather used to killing. I suppose you could say it’s second nature to me, my own special way. And he would have presented complications. Now, you’ll excuse me, Dr. Marin, but I have other things to attend to. I will be back, don’t worry about that. Ah, don’t try to escape. There is no way.” He waved the vial of her blood at her, smiled. “Think of all the beautiful blood you will give Radu.”
She heard Radu shout, “Roman. Roman, come, now!”
Roman bolted from the room, rushed to Radu’s side, where he sat hunched at his bank of computers.
“What, what is it?”
“Look, we received an email with a video attached. You need to see this.”
“Play it.”
There was no sound, and the composition was grainy and dark. There were two people in the frame.
Radu said, “Look, he’s handcuffed to the table. He’s a prisoner. Who is the other man, the one with his back to the camera?”
Roman looked closer. “Is that—Caleb Temora in handcuffs?”
“Yes. And look, the standing man turns, you can see half his face now.”
Roman watched carefully, felt his heart kick, felt adrenaline flood him.
“Roman, is that—”
“Barstow. That’s Barstow. Why does he have Caleb in custody? Why are they alone? When is this dated?”
“There is no date. No identification.”
“Who sent it?”
“The address is gibberish. It will take me time to decipher.”
Roman thumbed a tab in his mouth to calm his mind so he could think clearly, rationally. Barstow and Temora?
He said slowly, “So MI6 captured Temora where? In Syria, probably, in an ISIS camp, and Barstow brought him as a prisoner to London. I wonder if Barstow made him hack Radulov or if Temora volunteered to take me down.”
Radu said, “You have the drones hidden in Scotland, Roman. Only Raphael Marquez, Cyrus Wendell, and I know they’re there. I think Barstow wanted Temora to find them so he could get ahold of them, cut you out. Maybe he also wanted Temora to hack MATRIX in order to distract you, and Caleb decided he would try to destroy you instead.”
“By bringing down Radulov.” Roman felt a surge of rage and thumbed another tab onto his tongue. “Perhaps Barstow forced Caleb to write the hack on Radulov. Maybe Barstow didn’t only want the drone army location, he wanted me ruined and destroyed.” He paused a moment. “It’s all about the billion pounds, Radu, all about money, or what’s left of it.”
Radu said, his Voynichese even more guttural because he was upset, “Barstow is smart, but that would be beyond him, I think. No, I think Caleb wants to destroy you.”
“Why send the video then? Why show me he’s Barstow’s prisoner? Make me think he’s a hero?”
Radu shrugged. “Caleb worshipped you, Roman, but he also resented you. He saw you as the alpha male he had to defeat. When you stopped his pet project, he had only one goal—to prove he was better than you. I think he wanted you to figure this all out and recognize him as being the victor, so now he was the alpha. He sent the video to taunt you. I think he’s laughing at you, Roman.”
Roman nodded slowly. At last he understood. Barstow had wanted the drone army to swarm through Africa and defeat radical Islam, so he’d go down in history as a hero, like his blighter ancestors. But that was only a part of it. He thought again, Barstow wanted the money. Which had he wanted most? Roman had to laugh. A clever plan, but Temora’s video, regardless of his motives, was proof of what Barstow had done. He gave a moment’s thought to Vittorini, Alexander, and Donovan. He realized now they probably paid their share, and Barstow had kept it. He gave a moment’s regret to killing them. He lightly patted Radu’s shoulder.
“Of course you’re right, about all of it. It’s all so simple, really. The moment Barstow knew I had the drone army ready, the moment I told him he had to pay me, he had Temora hack into Radulov to find where I was storing them. What would he do? Send a special-ops squad up to Scotland to steal them?” He paused, stood. “Do you know, I really don’t care why Temora sent me the video. He is what he is, curse him to hell.”
“What will you do?”
“I must think, Radu. Something fitting for both Barstow and Temora.”