The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(89)

“The Prince Edward. Hamlet is playing.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “How much money are we talking about?”

“You heard me, I promised him the full amount.” Barstow shrugged again. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll take him, and the money won’t matter.”

“I suppose you have the one billion pounds, Corry, stashed in accounts out of the country?”

“No, of course not. I told you, the investors hadn’t paid up. I did keep a bit from their first payment, only fair. Again, I am not the criminal in this. I am a patriot who wanted only to fight terrorism. It is Ardelean.”

Nicholas looked at his father. His face was expressionless. No, there was something else—it was disappointment. In this man he’d known most of his life.

Harry looked away from Barstow. “Nicholas, we’ll split the teams. You’re on the rescue squad. I’ll go with Barstow and another team to take Ardelean into custody. And Nicholas?”

“Sir?”

“Be careful. You’ve already been shot in the side. I know, you’re fine, you’re always fine, but we have no idea what might be waiting for you inside that house. I—be careful, Nicholas.” Harry cleared his throat, said to Barstow, “Send the text to Ardelean. The theater it is.”





CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO


The Old Garden

Twickenham

Richmond upon Thames, London

Isabella didn’t know if it was night or day, nor did she care. The drug they’d given her had sent her into a surreal landscape made up of Voynichese language, but somehow perverted so she couldn’t read it. And the drawings, the green women and constellations and bizarre plants, what were they? She faded away, in and out.

Nor did she know how much time had passed, but now she was awake, clearheaded, and being wheeled into a stark white room that felt almost like a hospital suite by an older man, white white skin, his hair pale blond mixed with silver, no expression on his seamed face. She was tied down to the gurney in webbing—arms, legs, and neck. She knew what was going to happen. They were going to take her blood. How much? She saw Roman come toward her and wanted to scream, but no sound came out of her mouth. He leaned over her, lightly patted her face.

“You’ll be happy to hear all the tests came back, and yes, you are a perfect match for Radu. He tells me you are his life’s blood. Now, relax, this won’t hurt a bit.”

She felt cold, wet gauze swab over the vein in the crook of her arm. He jammed in a cannula. It felt like a railroad spike. Of course it hurt, but she didn’t make a sound.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

The older man wheeled in a second gurney. Radu was on it—not strapped down like she was, but sitting up, looking excited, like a child. He was clean as a whistle, too—hair freshly washed, wearing a white gown. She could smell something antiseptic, like medical soap.

Roman smiled. “You’re our blood sister. And you brought us the pages. Radu has drunk the potion, and now he awaits the life that should have always been his.”

She started to struggle against the webbing. She twisted and turned, nearly displacing the cannula in her arm.

She heard him say, “I should have done this earlier.” He leaned over her again. “Here, a little something to make you calm.” He injected a needle into her arm. Almost instantly, she felt the fear fade. There was no pain in her arm, no sense of what was going to happen. He was saying, “I hope you can still understand me. We’re going to have to take a great deal of your blood, and probably do this two or three times, but the manuscript’s directions are clear. If we follow these steps, he will be cured, and you shouldn’t be dead.”

She looked up at him, blurred now, but she still saw a handsome man, a genius, it was said. She admired genius. She whispered, “All right, but you know, I really don’t want to die.”

“You spoke to me in Voynichese, did you realize that? Well, I gave you something quite pleasant. Sorry I can’t play music for you, Radu doesn’t like it. Perhaps he will once he has your blood coursing through his veins. Do you want to hum?”

“Yes, I want to hum.” And she started humming, an old Romanian ballad sung by her mother and her mother before her, all the way back to who knew? A sad song about a man and a maid and how they were betrayed and both died. Who cared? She kept humming.

She thought she heard him laugh. Was that Radu’s excited voice?

He was leaning over her again, and lightly laid a finger over her mouth. “You’re humming too loud. I don’t want Radu to get too excited. Transfusions are difficult for him, and we must be so careful. Even the tiniest bit of jostling while the needle is in place could be the death of him.”

She whispered her hum, more the sound of a bee now, but she didn’t want to jostle Radu.

“It’s time. Radu, are you ready?”

“I am. Oh, Isabella. My dearest sister. I am very excited to have you inside of me.”

Iago leaned over to insert the needle into Radu’s arm, but Roman stepped to his side and took the cannula away. “Iago, I will do that. I don’t want any mistakes now.”

“As you wish.” And she saw the man Iago step out of the way, his face still expressionless.

Iago. Was he named after Shakespeare’s Iago? A bad man he’d been. She whispered his name.