The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(57)

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, you handled our other little issue, yes?”

“Yes. Everything is secure and safe, loaded on the ship, waiting for your word.”

“Excellent. Good work, Raphael. If you keep this up, I won’t even hold Temora’s breach against you. Get the press release out as soon as possible, and upload the blog ten minutes after the release is public. Oh yes, send that prick Nicholas Drummond a list of our recently terminated employees. He thinks the breach is coming from the inside, and it will keep them busy. Go ahead and put Temora’s name on the list, maybe they can catch him.”

“But—”

He hung up. It was odd. Part of him was fully aware he should be very worried indeed that the company he’d spent years to build might collapse. But another part, the greater part, was consumed with the pages from the Voynich and finding the cure for Radu.

If only Drummond had died like he was supposed to. And that made him think about his escape plan. He had a plane ever on standby. Take Radu and the cast to the small island in the South Pacific he’d prepared for just this occasion. Stage his death—he planned to drown off the coast of Scotland, everyone would assume he killed himself after his company’s implosion—and make his way to his family.

Simple, straightforward. He hoped he wouldn’t have to, at least not yet. Moving Radu would be difficult at best, and Roman wanted to find a cure before he had to do so.

His mobile rang. It was Barstow. Roman listened, and then he hung up, without saying a word.

From one minute to the next, it seemed everything was unraveling, and none of it was his fault. He remembered the Money’s enthusiasm, their optimism, their commitment to Project Cabal seven months before, after his demonstration in the Nubian Desert. What had happened? And there was Temora, thumbing his nose at him, destroying Radulov, and the Voynich, always the Voynich, and Dr. Isabella Marin.

Focus, focus. He would act, he had to act. And another would pay for betraying him. And Barstow. He’d be a fool to trust him.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


Govan Shipyards

Glasgow, Scotland

Paulina Vittorini stood on the docks, a hand to her eyes, the wind off the River Clyde plastering her long, wide-legged pants against her. Though the day was gray and overcast, the shipyard was humming with activity. Massive cranes moved through the sky, hundreds of workers swarmed the partially built Type 26 frigate in dry dock, Britain’s newest line of maritime defense.

They were doing a stellar job on the naval contract. Delivery early and under budget—that was always her goal, and her success had made her shipyard renowned throughout the world. When this contract was done, she knew the navy would come begging for more. And she whispered, as she always did, “You taught me well, Father.”

She’d loved the shipyard from the moment her father, Sir Atlas Giltrow, had carried her on his shoulders when she’d been a little girl of five. Even now, as she looked out over what her father had built and what she’d added to their legacy, she felt humbled. After that first day, her father had brought her with him every day. She remembered so clearly that first steel monstrosity, the skeleton of a monster, she’d whispered to him and he’d laughed and told her to keep watching. And she had. Every day the skeleton added flesh, larger and larger, until she believed it would reach the sky. And when she’d seen that incredible ship sail out of dry dock, she’d known she wanted to be like her father. She wanted to build ships.

By the time her father died, Paulina had earned an engineering degree, married Paolo Vittorini, an Italian shipping magnate, thus combining the power of their two families, and was on her way to leading one of the most successful shipbuilding firms in the world.

Her son and daughter would follow her. She whispered into the furious wind, “You would be so proud, Father, I’m going to help save a country.” Well, she would, once she helped deploy into Africa the drone army Roman Ardelean had built. Her name would go down in history as a visionary, a patriot, a humanitarian.

She already had supplemental arms on board the ship to accompany the drones, ready to go. But where were her drones? She’d paid Barstow months ago, two massive installments, 150 million each time. He assured her the drones would be coming, several times, telling her Ardelean had run into a few design problems but not to worry. But they still weren’t here. She would call him again, and this time she wouldn’t accept any more of his excuses for Ardelean.

Her assistant, Sabriel Coes, came to her side. “Ma’am, we have to go. You’re speaking at the Women in Engineering awards luncheon in an hour. I have seen to your luggage on the plane. Following the luncheon, you will fly to Rome.”

She took one last glance at the frigate, wondered once more, Where are my drones?, and started for the car.

The sting in her neck was brief, and she swatted at it. “Ouch! What was—”

Sabriel watched her boss go down, hitting hard on her side, her hair whipped loose by the wind, now covering her face. What had happened? She ran to her and went down on her knees, suddenly afraid. She smoothed the hair from her face and screamed when she saw the froth coming out of her boss’s mouth.





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


MI5 Headquarters, Home Office

Thames House

12 Millbank

Westminster, London