At this, Roman turned from Buckingham, eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s upset—pacing, moaning, pulling at his hair. He only calmed when I told him I would fetch you immediately.”
“Very well.” He said softly to his cabal, “Stay calm, I will be back shortly. Iago, you will remain with them. Take care, I hope you will not become another course in their dinner.”
Iago swallowed and nodded. He looked at the birds, knew he couldn’t show fear. They would smell it on him, like sweat from a pore, and attack. Would they like the taste of him as well as the grouse necks? Probably so. He imagined his master had trained them to like the taste of human blood. He held perfectly still and began telling them stories of ancient times in Romania, in a calm soothing voice, their own Scheherazade.
Roman walked quickly through the long hallways toward his brother’s rooms. He’d chosen this setting with both his twin brother and the cabal in mind. It was Radu’s refuge and a southern command post for the cast. It sat on the River Thames, with sweeping grounds and gardens to allow the falcons to fly free as often as possible, and private enough for Radu to occasionally sit in the sun in his small garden.
It was a palatial home and built to Roman’s exact specifications, in the Palladian style. Radu had named it the Old Garden, surely an odd name, but Roman hadn’t cared. This wasn’t Roman’s only home, but it was his favorite. It also provided him a bolt-hole near London, should the need ever arise.
His estate in Northampton, on the River Nene, in Billing, was sprawling and old, magnificent really, but Roman preferred London to the country, unless he wished to make a spectacular hunt—the cabal, the dogs, the drones whipping through the skies over the rabbit-laden hedges, it was a reward for them all.
He turned toward Radu’s wing of the house. Unlike Roman’s private quarters done up in his favorite bloodred, Radu’s were plain and simply furnished with very little color, all neutral grays and light blues. Anything to keep Radu calm, to keep him comfortable. Radu’s happiness was more important to Roman than anything, and anyone, even his cabal.
His ex-wife could attest to that. He shoved the brief thought of Leanne away and ignored the other image that came to mind, the bundled infant he hadn’t seen in four years. They made him question himself and his choices in the dark of the night, when his mind relaxed in the moments before sleep. But such questions made him weak, and weakness was not acceptable.
Nothing, no one, was more important than Radu.
Radu’s second-floor suite was designed as a large flat, with a separate kitchen and dining room, a marble bath and two bedrooms—though Radu rarely slept—a sitting area—though he rarely used it—and his computers. The western wall of the main living space was a liquid crystal screen, curved inward slightly, so high-end the technology wasn’t available outside of military installations. Few countries had the money to afford even a small screen of the material. Radu’s computer took up a ten-foot-by-twenty-foot area on the wall. It was a living, breathing, networked connection to the great world beyond, the mediator to the world Radu couldn’t face himself.
The floor above was Radu’s lab, a quiet place of white and metal, whirring machines, and antiseptic smells. His specialty was genetics. If he’d bothered with formal schooling, he’d be recognized as a leading expert in the field.
Radu was special, in so many ways. Early on, various doctors had diagnosed him with an uncommon derivative autism or an unusual sort of Asperger’s, or even a form of partial seizure disorder, none of which meant anything to Roman or Radu. But everything had changed when one psychiatrist had placed his brother in front of a computer for the first time. In the virtual world, Radu flew like Roman’s falcons. He was skilled, his genius clear. He was omnipotent, he was a god.
Radu didn’t like to speak in English or Romanian. He usually communicated with Roman in their twin talk, the brothers’ special language the two had been speaking since they were babies, probably in the womb. Even Iago had no idea what they were saying, and he had been with the family for decades and with the twins for the better part of their lives. In their twin talk, Radu was fluent, verbal, well-spoken.
When Roman arrived at his twin’s suite of rooms, he saw Radu pacing along the edge of the great room, clearly upset, slapping his palms to his head and keening, a frightening, lost sound.
Roman was at his brother’s side in an instant, his hand on his shoulder to stop his pacing. “Radu, look at me. What is wrong?”
Radu felt his brother’s strong hand on his arm and was reassured. He looked at his brother, saw his worry, his limitless love for him, and wished again Roman could stay with him all the time, though he understood that wasn’t at all possible. Roman was the face of their company, he was seen as the genius of Radulov Industries, the world’s premier cybersecurity firm. Roman was the one who sat down with heads of state, heads of governments, CEOs of companies and explained Radulov’s incredible operating system MATRIX, which not only connected them to the world but also protected them.
Until Temora’s attack this morning.
Roman would laugh as he talked about these meetings and tell him over and over that it was he, Radu, who was Radulov’s heart, its blood, its very life force. He and he alone was the center of Radulov, the creator of MATRIX. It was Radu who wrote the code his brother designed.
Radu felt calm flow through him, and he turned and pointed to the computer screen. “Look, Roman.”
It was then Roman saw a small flashing white skull and bones. It was Radu’s danger signal.
It meant more trouble ahead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ancient artworks illustrating falconry date back at least 3,500 years to ancient Mesopotamia and Mongolia. While historically falconry was an elite and male-dominated activity, we have records of several notable women enjoying the hobby, including Queen Elizabeth I, Catherine the Great of Russia, and Mary, Queen of Scots.
—Smithsonian Magazine
Roman kept his voice low and calm. “What is it, brother? What’s happened?”
“They know,” Radu whispered in their twin tongue. “They know about the drone that killed Hemmler. It was spotted.”
Roman blew out a relieved breath. He’d feared Radu would tell him Temora had managed to do more damage. “Don’t worry, Radu, it’s easily managed. They can’t trace it back to us.”
“You do not understand. I monitored a call to the Metropolitan Police after the attack. One of the policemen there—Penderley is his name—he discussed the case with that Brit FBI agent, Drummond, you know, the one whose father—”
“Drummond? That