The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(12)

“They won’t believe Chappy Donovan was a traitor.”

Roman laughed. “Do you want me to send them the proof?”

“No!”

Roman heard Barstow’s labored breathing. He hoped he didn’t stroke out.

Barstow said, “There’s something else. Terry Alexander notified me, said he’d been told by a reliable source this was all a scam, that there wasn’t a drone army, that you planned to keep the money. He said he was out of the project, but he assured me he wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”

A punch to the gut. Who would have told Alexander that?

Roman said, “Of course you assured him the rumor was false.”

“Yes, yes, of course I did, but look, I’m sorry, but I think he might be lost to us.”

“My billion pounds is shrinking rapidly, Barstow.” Roman added quietly, “Did you trace the source of this rumor?”

“I can’t, and believe me, I’ve tried. Sorry, Roman.”

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.