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.”
Barstow stared at him, and said, his voice meditative, “I do despise you, Harry, despite everything you are. I suppose I always have. And now you want to be my judge and jury? Why not, he’ll kill me anyway.” Barstow gave him a twisted smile. “You want the truth? I wanted it all, Harry. The money, the drones, the power that came with saving the world from these animals, these terrorists. You know I come from a long line of military strategists. I thought this was simply another game of chess, with bigger stakes. I had all the moves figured out. I didn’t anticipate Ardelean not to be willing to part with the drones until he had the money in hand. I was wrong. So I tried to distract him by submarining his company.”
“You were behind the hack on MATRIX? How is that possible?”
Barstow looked at Harry and said with a sneer, “I’ve always been smarter than you, Harry. I found a former employee who was Ardelean’s trusted protégé, a brilliant young man who hated Ardelean so much he was willing to take him down, both him and his precious Radulov.”
“Where did you find this genius?”
“You remember we lost several young men to ISIS about four years back? One of them was named Caleb Temora.”
“I recall the name.”
“He was a coder with Radulov for a few years, brilliant, absolutely brilliant. We picked him up in a sweep while looking for people who might be defecting home from ISIS. They get there and realize the caliphate isn’t what they thought it would be.
“The moment we got him home, he tried to hack the security at Buckingham Palace. For ISIS? We don’t know. He claims not, claims he was doing it for fun, but we couldn’t take any chances. He wanted to make a deal with me. He told me Ardelean built his computer code using an ancient manuscript. A new computer language, he called it. Not zeros and ones but fours and eights, something like that, based on the call letter of the manuscript.”
Harry stared at him. “You’re talking about the Voynich, aren’t you?”
“Yes. He was able to write us code to brute-force attack Radulov Industries and start a waterfall effect of hacks on all the terminals housing MATRIX. I’d hoped it would keep Ardelean too busy to bother with me.”
“You, the vaunted patriot, cost the world millions of pounds in lost time and ransomware payments.”
Barstow shrugged.
“Does Ardelean know it was you who had someone playing with his code?”
I know what you did. Barstow shook his head. Ardelean couldn’t have meant Temora. There was no way he could have found out Barstow had kept him in a safe house for the past year—just in case he needed him, and he had. “You wish to talk to Temora? He’s all yours. He’ll give you all the details. Oh, here we are, we’re coming up to the theater. Harry, you must kill him. He’s more dangerous than you can possibly imagine. You should—”
There was a brilliant flash of light, and the front of the Range Rover exploded.
Harry felt the burst of white-hot flame, the window give against his shoulder, the cool night air, then he landed on the pavement, rolling as he hit, to protect himself. He rolled into a gutter, the flames hot on his face, sucking out his breath. He covered his head with his arms and waited for another blast, or gunfire. Finally, he crawled to his knees, then stood, wincing at the pain. His arms were scraped, his ribs—were they broken? Even the smallest breath hurt, but he was alive.
He looked at the mangled SUV, an inferno against the dark sky, and he couldn’t see either the driver or Barstow inside.
He became aware of the growing chaos around him, people screaming, shouting for police, some running away, some pulling out their phones and recording videos. One man with a small dog on a leash stared dumbly at Harry, who realized he must look like a war victim.
His mind struggled to catch up. Drone, it must have been a drone, and it dropped a bomb on the car, like the train attack. Only this time the drone did it on the front of the car, blowing off the doors and windows. Harry, not wearing his seat belt, was thrown from the wreckage by the blast. He learned soon enough that Barstow and the driver had not been so lucky.
Harry saw blood running down his arm and pulled out a handkerchief to tie around the gash. He managed to get away from the flames and pressed against the building, scanning the skies as he reached for his phone. He heard the faint noise above him, looked up to see a red eye in the sky. The drone was searching the scene. It zoomed over, back and forth, seeking, but Harry was hidden in the shadows.
Bloody hell, where was his phone? It wasn’t in his pocket. He realized he wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore, either, it must have gotten caught in the car. He was also missing a shoe.
He leaned his head back against the building, hiding from the drone, listened to sirens wailing as they grew nearer and nearer and the noise from so many people as they watched the car burn. He heard the faint hum of the drone, flying away now, its pilot satisfied it had done its job.
Fury filled him.
This was war.