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 pe
t 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.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Interpol Orange Notice: To warn of an event, a person, an object, or a process representing a serious and imminent threat to public safety.
—Interpol.int
Dawson Place
Notting Hill, London
The street ahead was lined with cars. A crime scene was a crime scene no matter what country you were in. A falcon seen on the windowsill. Was it Ardelean? Had he murdered whoever this man was? And why?
Mike flashed her credentials and was through the line and up the stairs to the flat in moments. As she entered, she looked around—so familiar, so normal—aside from the forensic techs in white Tyvek jumpsuits.
A woman was seated on the living room sofa, blank-faced, in shock. She had tissues in one limp hand, a photography bag at her feet. Shouldn’t she be the one taking photos? Not a crime-scene tech, then. A witness, perhaps. But what was she still doing here?
“Mike!”
Mike turned to see Nicholas’s former second-in-command, Gareth Scott, walking toward her. He whipped off his gloves and held out his hand. They shook. “It’s good to see you. Penderley said you’d be along. Thanks for coming so quickly.” He waved a hand around him. “This whole thing with the falcon on the windowsill, Penderley said it had to do with the case you and Nicholas are working here in London. And the poor lad found on the kitchen floor was an American.”
“Good to see you, as well, Gareth. And yes, the falcon—it very likely does tie in with our case. Gareth, this is Ian Sansom, MI5. Ian, this is DI Gareth Scott.”
A big smile bloomed. “It’s Detective Chief Inspector now, Mike, papers signed last week. Sansom? MI5, you say? A pleasure.” And the two men shook hands.
Ian said, “I’m here more as her escort. I’ll not be in the way. Hey, congrats on the bump—the big bump.”
Mike said to Gareth, “He’s all right, Gareth, he works for Mr. Drummond. You removed the victim last night?”
“Very late, yes, but we’ve preserved the crime scene for you. Come this way. And I have photos.”
Gareth led them to the kitchen. She quickly registered the scene as she’d been taught, surroundings first—dinner remains on the counters, the table set with plates and flowers, food still uneaten, candle wax overflowed onto the tablecloth. Evidence placards littered the scene. Gareth pulled up the original crime scene shots on his tablet, showed her the victim’s body.
“His name was Gil Brooks, thirty-two years old. He was a freelance photographer.”
Mike saw the man’s body was contorted, saw blood pooling under his head. “His neck,” Mike said, “Nicholas said the manner of death was unexpected, strange. What am I looking at here?”
Gareth swiped to a close-up of the wound. “You can see the two small holes, right over the jugular? We don’t know what the killer used, but he knew exactly where to strike. He bled out very quickly.”
Mike looked through the photos, looked into the young man’s sightless eyes, the bluish bruising around his neck, the two narrow holes. She looked up. “But he wasn’t exsanguinated?”
“No,” Gareth said. “Superintendent Penderley and I briefly discussed the Vampire Killer who’s been roaming over Europe the past couple of years. As far as we know, this is his first stop in the U.K. But why this man? He’s not Brit, he’s not Romanian as most victims have been, no, he’s an American. What do you know about this, Mike?”
“All I know is what I happened to see in an Interpol notice, a killer poking tubes of some kind into victims’ necks and draining their blood—the Vampire Killer, or Dracula.”
Gareth nodded. “But as you said, this victim wasn’t exsanguinated. Do you think it’s the same killer?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “I do.”
“Well,” Gareth said, “I’ve never seen anything like this before. And it gets better. The lady on the couch is a wedding photographer. She was hired by our victim to show up to take engagement photographs. She came promptly at ten o’clock last night. The door was cracked open, and she found him.”
“He was engaged? Where is his fiancée?”
“We don’t know. I spoke to the photographer last night, but she was rattled. She agreed to come back to meet with you. Let’s see what you can get out of her.”
Her name was Becca Chance. After introductions, she turned beautiful brown eyes to Mike. “You’re FBI, like in America?”
“Yes, that’s right. You were here to take engagement photos? Were you a friend of the deceased?”
“He’s not—he wasn’t a friend. Mr. Brooks is—was—a client. He hired me to come take photos of him and his girlfriend. He said he was going to propose right before I got here. He was so excited.” She paused, closed her eyes a moment. Mike lightly laid her hand over hers. She swallowed, straightened. “I’m all right. When I got here, the door was open, and I came in, called for him, and I found him. He was dead on the floor in the kitchen.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “There was so much blood. How could she do this?”
“She?” Mike asked.
“His girlfriend. Who else?”
Mike glanced around. There was a single photo of a couple on the coffee table. She pointed at it.
“Do you have her name?”
“It’s Isabella Marin. She’s a doctor of some kind. I didn’t ask. Why? Mr. Brooks was very nice, a lovely man.”
A cop stuck his head in the door. “DC Scott? Landlord is here, finally, says he has the rental contract. He told us about the security camera in the stairwell and the lift. It’s concealed, and he’s pulling the tape for us. Five minutes.”
Mike said, “There’s luck. Ms. Chance, did you see anyone as you came in the building? Did Mr. Brooks ring you in, or did you come in yourself?”
“As I’ve already said to DC Scott here, the apartment building front doors were open. I let myself in the foyer and came up the stairs, and no, I didn’t see anyone. It felt strange, though. I remember feeling the hair stand up on the back of my neck right before I knocked. It felt like someone was watching me.”
Mike said, “We’ll see what the cameras show. One last thing. When was this gig booked?”
“Over a month ago. I’d have to check my calendar for the exact date.”
“Thank you for being so clear and concise. I appreciate your coming back to speak to me. I’m very sorry you had to be here. This is all very difficult.”
She and Gareth moved to the door together, and the cop standing there led them to the first floor. “Landlord has the video queued.” He took her arm. “Mike, the falcon seen on the windowsill, why is this so important that Penderley asked you specifically to come here?”
“As soon as I can, Gareth, I’ll tell you all about it. Please, be patient.”
The landlord was older, midsixties, no-nonsense, and short on words, something Mike appreciated.
He nodded to her, and all he said was, “Here,” and pushed the small television toward Mike and Gareth.
Mike could see the camera footage was black and white, the angle geared for the stairwell, but the elevator foyer was visible.
They watched for a few minutes—empty hallway, empty elevator—then a man’s head came into view. She could see sandy-brown hair but not his face. He turned to step into the elevator, and she caught a glimpse of glasses. The video went blank when the elevator doors closed.
Mike asked, “Wait, Gareth, did you see a beard?”
“Yes—dark brown, darker than his hair.” Gareth said to the landlord, “Is there a full frontal shot of his face on this?”
“Keep watching. I’m gonna speed it up.”
Twenty minutes later, according to the time stamp, the elevator door dinged, and Mike saw the man exit, still without a good shot of his face, but now, there was a girl on his arm. She was walking slowly, heavily. The man was almost dragging her along.
“Oh my, that’s Dr. Marin,” the landlord said, rising out of his seat. “What’s he doing to her?”
Mike watched them walk out of the shot, and almost right away, Becca Chance, the photographer, appeared in the foyer.
The killer had been in and out in less than twenty minutes.
Gareth said, “Doesn’t look like Dr. Marin murdered her fiancé. She looks drunk, or drugged.”
Gareth said, “The garage is beneath the building, so he lucked out that no one was around to see anything.”
Mike turned to the landlord. “Can you give us all the information you have on Dr. Marin?”
“Already did, to this gentleman here.” He shook his head. “Poor lady, whatever happened—well, sure, she’s been a good tenant, her boyfriend, too, both on the lease.”
“Here, Mike,” Gareth said, and handed her a file.
Mike said, “I see Isabella is American, from Florida, works at the British Museum.”
The landlord was shaking his head. “Both of them, nice kids, quiet, rent’s on time, paid in full. Mr. Brooks travels. He’s a photographer for the Globe. Nature, war, that kind of stuff. What’s wrong with people?”