Rage bubbled and roiled. Alexander would pay, he would see to it. Still, when he spoke, his voice was calm. “You will call me tomorrow with good news, namely, the others have paid up and no more of our flock have slipped out of the fold.” He tossed the phone onto the leather seat across from him, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.
Roman would give him a day to talk the Money around. If Barstow failed, then Roman would take action. He knew Barstow was ruthless: he would kill his own mother if it would get him what he wanted. He wanted the drones very badly, so perhaps he would twist arms like he’d said. Why had the Money gone against the agreement—final payment, then drone delivery? And Alexander, who had been told there were no drones? That Roman was a crook?
He picked up his tablet, scrolled through the list of names. Six Money were involved in Project Cabal, four men, two women, representing four different countries. Well, now four since Donovan’s face-plant yesterday and Alexander’s defection. So he’d lose a hundred-fifty-million pounds. Donovan’s death already improved the world. Had he really not paid Barstow? Had Barstow lied, deciding he could keep the money rather than giving it to Roman?
But Alexander. A shock, that one. Roman had liked Terry Alexander, worked with him on occasion, found him committed to keeping England safe from terrorism. Who had told him Roman had lied about the army?
Roman slipped a stamp onto his tongue, leaned his head back against the leather seat, and closed his eyes again. He thought back to the day, nearly two years before, when Barstow involved him in what was then an incredible dream. Barstow had proposed bringing together several wealthy individuals to fund the building of a drone army. Naturally, the governments of democratic nuclear nations couldn’t be seen supporting upstart democratic wars in Africa, not anymore. Even when the enemy was so clear—the nightly news was full of terrorist bombings, cars driving into crowds, innocents’ blood spilled on the streets—the select six were eager to finance the project but insisted they had to work behind the scenes so, whatever happened, they wouldn’t be held accountable, wouldn’t be targeted by ISIS. They knew to take the terrorists on openly meant they’d likely be handed their heads.
Very few people knew Roman was already trafficking in arms for the smaller nations fighting ISIS. He’d be lauded as a hero if he was found out, of that he had no doubt. Of course, ISIS would probably come after him. It was worth the risk.
But there was more—there was always more—and he accepted his hatred of ISIS was more personal, more deep and abiding.
He wanted a weapon of his own manufacture to take out his greatest protégé and now his greatest enemy, Caleb Temora.
Temora was one of the reasons he’d agreed to work this drone army black op with Barstow in the first place. The chance to destroy Temora the way Temora was trying to destroy him was too good to pass up.
Roman had hired Temora right out of high school, with no formal training. He was a natural, a brilliant coder. He had a way of seeing through one code to the next in a ballet of unexpected and elegant ways that produced remarkable results. Roman knew of only two others as brilliant with code—himself and his twin brother, Radu. If he were honest with himself, Roman saw Temora almost as a surrogate younger brother. He’d mentored him, taught him, groomed him. Roman was Temora’s mentor, Temora was his acolyte. He’d trusted him.
Yet Roman never realized how volatile and unpredictable Temora was. When he’d had no choice but to cancel one of Temora’s pet projects because he knew it simply wouldn’t pay off for them, he’d watched Temora change. He grew more formal with Roman, then skipped work, or when he showed up, he was drunk or stoned, and then one fine Friday, he’d finally disappeared entirely.
Roman did everything he could to find him.
Word soon leaked out that a girl called Aisha had recruited him after Roman had pulled his project. When Roman took apart Temora’s computer after he’d disappeared, he realized quickly Aisha was a black widow. But before Roman could find Temora, Radu discovered Temora had traveled to Syria and joined the caliphate.
To lose a computer genius of his caliber to ISIS, to know his former protégé was enabling their communications on the dark web, using private messaging services he’d developed for them, plummeted Roman into a well of hate.
Now, five years later, Roman and Radu had still failed to find him. He knew Temora was at the forefront, he recognized his work in the terror organization’s technology. And at Temora’s back, protecting him, stood the world’s most feared terrorists.
Yes, destroying ISIS was paramount, but Roman wanted more. He wanted to find Temora and stick a knife in his heart, let his twin, Radu, look on and applaud as Roman danced in Temora’s blood.
Roman knew in his gut Temora was behind the spectacular malware hack of Radulov’s flagship product MATRIX, Roman’s combined operating system and antivirus cybersecurity program. He’d pushed a worm through MATRIX, in essence taking every computer running the program hostage. It had his fingerprints all over it. No one else could have pulled it off, certainly no hacker he’d heard of could have managed to burrow into the first three layers of security on MATRIX. Only Temora, who knew the system as well as Roman himself.
And now he was demanding money from each business in the form of bitcoin to release it.
What to do about the errant worm that had dismantled hundreds of businesses, even the National Health Service, losing them millions of pounds if they didn’t pay up? How was Roman to secure MATRIX once and for all? No mystery there, he had to find Temora and kill him.
Roman simply had to focus his magnificent brain on what needed to be done. Roman knew his twin, Radu, could possibly secure MATRIX from any more Temora hacks, knew he’d work as hard and fast as he could, because Radu hated Temora with all the soul-deep hate Roman did, maybe more. Temora had befriended Radu, had shown him respect, given him endless praise and affection. He’d made Radu his god, and it was all a lie.
The pilot announced they would be landing in five minutes. Roman took a deep breath, fingered another microdose tab into his mouth. He now had to focus on how to deal with Raphael Marquez, his manager at the Scottish facility, the heart of Radulov. His people had failed to protect MATRIX, they’d let Temora in. What should he do?
He thought of Alexander again, and knew what he would do.
* * *
Corinthian “Corry” Jones, Lord Barstow, stared at his silent mobile. He’d known he was playing with fire when he’d allied himself with Roman Ardelean, but he prayed all the risk would be worth it. He thought about the first Corinthian Jones, who’d ridden on the field of Blenheim at John Churchill’s side in 1704, a hero to England, as much as Churchill, and Queen Anne had made him the first Viscount Barstow. All the men in his illustrious family through the succeeding centuries had schemed for England, had fought for England—all of them had accomplished great deeds.
And now, at last, he would follow in their footsteps. He would make his own mark. He would be known throughout history as a patriot and a hero. His name would be immortal. He smiled. He was smarter than those before him, because along with his fame, he would be wealthy beyond imagining.
Ah, but there were so many chess pieces on the board, so many moves to consider, all to bring down Roman Ardelean, the Black King, and secure the drone army. Today the game had started, the game that held his own life in the balance. And Ardelean had given him a brilliant idea.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Old Farrow Hall
Farrow-on-Gray, England
Hold on . . . wait a sec . . .” Mike saw Adam stare into space for a brief moment, then he started typing furiously. She heard a whoosh, and an email appeared. Adam looked excited.
“Click the link. I’m going to run you through an idea I just had.”