“Are you here to kill me?” Broken Teeth hissed.
“No, no. I was just checking on you…” stammered Jones, backing away.
“Liar,” said Broken Teeth, shooting him in the stomach.
The bullet severed nerves at the base of Jones’ spine, and he fell to the ground paralyzed from the waist. Broken Teeth could not wait to shed the gabardine. “Why’d you people want me to wear this pouffy thing? Stupid.” He tossed the coat onto Jones. “Here, you have it, I’ll keep this,” he said slipping the Glock into his jacket pocket. “And this,” he added, grabbing Jones’ cellphone. “Thanks, it’s been a blast.” He strode out of the room without looking back.
Jones struggled not to hyperventilate. There was no sensation in his legs. The pain in his stomach was bearable if he did not move. He pushed the gabardine off his face, and as he did he became conscious of square objects sewn into the lining. He reached for a zippered pocket and frantically worked it open.
Broken Teeth paused at the exit to the building. He reconsidered keeping the Glock. Maybe it was time for a different sort of life. He took it out and tossed it aside.
Jones gaped at what he had pulled out of the coat pocket, a cellphone taped to a detonator. A lightning bolt of realization shot through him. Shit, oh shit! He was never going to be rich. He’d never have all those girlfriends. He was expendable. With his peculiar sense of cruelty, Nelson had ordered Jones personally to make the suicidal call that would trigger the detonator, thinking that he was calling the cleanup crew.
Walking away from the building, Broken Teeth examined the sleek high end phone he had taken from the table. He saw a text alert on the screen. It read “Call 07700900999.” Why not, he thought, hitting the call icon.
The second ring triggered the explosives. Jones was blasted back through the razor wire gate like brie though a cheese grater. The sound of the explosion and the dust and smoke that issued from the basement vents went unnoticed in the smoke and noise of the adjacent construction site. The remnants of Jones’ body would be discovered in the terrorist cell’s HQ. The plan was that it would be revealed to investigators that Nelson’s unit had been on their trail, closing in, but arriving just minutes too late to prevent the bombing of a famous British monument, despite the heroic death of a junior agent who had discovered the terrorists’ lair and taken them on singlehandedly. Sacrificing Jones would ensure that Nelson’s unit received a pass at the enquiry.
Oblivious to the explosion, Broken Teeth dropped the phone in a gutter. Useless piece of crap. Don’t need that, either. He walked away a free man, feeling more alive than he had in years. The phone rang a few moments later.
Nelson and Brandt listened as the phone went to voice mail. Brandt was somber faced. He had considered Jones a weaselly little shit, but his death was nonetheless regrettable.
“Had to be done,” said Nelson. Brandt, nodding, remained silent.
CHAPTER 45
Descant of Agony
The SUV sped through the West End streets, heading east. Paul was telling baseball jokes, causing his fellow travelers some amusement. He had successfully assessed their cultural interests. Adamo and Sigura, both New Yorkers, exchanged a wry look. They couldn’t figure why the kid had to die. He was funny. But they had a job to do. Best not to think about these things. Not if you wanted to move up the food chain. Paul continued to play the role of the agent who believed his mission was over and would be mentioned in dispatches for his part in its success. But when Levinson turned the vehicle off the main road down a side street between two office buildings, Paul realized that this was the moment. The agents would have expected a sudden move earlier, in the middle of traffic, and believed their charade was working. Paul understood that plausibility and timing were vital. His survival was predicated on commitment, unhesitating follow through and surprise.
In a lightning maneuver, Paul released his seat belt, dove forward, while twisting to face upwards not down. He had gauged the position of the handbrake and the distance between the two front seats. With one hand he grabbed the wheel of the SUV, swinging the vehicle across the lane toward a parked delivery van. With the other hand, he plucked the Sig Sauer P226 from the belt of Agent Simmonds in the front passenger seat. He had noted when he got into the SUV where each man carried his weapon; back clip, shoulder or belt. He had also noted that the driver, Levinson, had an ankle holster in addition to his back clip. He would have to watch for that.
Paul’s ability to multitask had impressed his superiors during his CITP training. While he was playing the sucker, he had mapped the interior of the vehicle, calculating the spatial relationships between occupants, and potential trajectory of bullets. He scanned the instrument panel. Front and rear airbags were operational. They would be the equalizer he needed. Almost as soon as Paul got Simmonds’ weapon clear of the holster, his thumb flicked the safety catch, and his finger found the trigger. He put a bullet into the man’s inner thigh as he pulled the gun away. Simmonds gave a deep guttural gasp and fainted. Despite Levinson’s struggle to dislodge his grip, Paul had his hand clamped on the wheel, immovable. The SUV slammed into the back of the parked delivery van, as Paul intended. The agents in the back seat had tried to grab Paul and pull him back, instead of immediately drawing weapons. Then the impact of the collision triggered the airbags, knocking the gun out of Adamo’s hand and preventing Sigura from aiming. Paul had braced himself for impact, so lost no time. In quick succession he placed the muzzle of the Sig Sauer against Sigura’s kneecap and fired. Paul could see Levinson beside him reaching down for his ankle holster, trying to push the airbag aside. Paul swung the gun onto Levinson’s extended elbow and fired, shattering the humerus at the joint, then swiftly swung it back to put a bullet into Adamo’s nearest knee, then another into Sigura’s foot. Paul’s next bullet deflated the driver’s airbag, allowing him to smash Levinson in the face with his gun, stunning him. Paul then pulled himself up, reaching over the back seat airbags to club both flailing men in the head with his pistol butt till he could grab their weapons. The vehicle reverberated with shrieks of pain and vows of vengeance, in a weirdly musical descant of agony and rage.
“Where’s it fucking happening?” Paul screamed at Levinson, when he had collected weapons and phones from each groaning man into a gym bag he took from the trunk. They were all still alive, though the one he had shot in the thigh might bleed out if help did not come soon. Paul saw many faces at office windows looking down on the lane. Police would not be far away.
“Tell me where,” ordered Paul, “and I will speak for you at trial.” Levinson remained silent. “It’s over. You’ve lost. Help yourselves by helping me. Where is she?”
“Tower of London!” shouted Adamo from the back seat.
“Shut up!” yelled Levinson.
Adamo ignored him. “The White Tower. Better hurry. Show’s on.”
Paul shouted: “What show?”
Adamo said, “The girl’s wired...” His words spluttered. Sigura had cut his throat.
Paul heard the sound of approaching sirens. He quickly locked the gym bag full of evidence in the trunk and pocketed the car keys. He knew he couldn’t take a gun where he needed to go. Paul sprinted back up the lane to the street.
CHAPTER 46
A Conspiracy of Ravens
Pamela van Doren, Paige and Emily had lucked out. The weather for their day at the Tower was cool yet sunny. It was great to let go of the stress and just be tourists. The first item of the girls’ itinerary was to meet with the Yeoman Warder Ravenmaster of the Tower, a sympathetic and humorous man whose relationship with the renowned birds was uncanny. The girls strolled with him through the greensward. The Ravenmaster repeated the legend that there had to be a conspiracy of ravens, a flock of at least six birds, in residence on the grounds or both the Tower and the British monarchy would fall. The girls had the rare privilege of feeding and stroking one of the tamer ravens. Glossy blue
-black feathers, piercing gaze. Such intelligent creatures! They thanked the Ravenmaster, and their tour guide led them toward the Jewel House.
There, the strains of Handel’s Coronation Anthems set a regal tone for viewing the Crown Jewels. Hearing that all day must drive the attendants insane, Pamela thought. She gazed at the opulent display before her. Of all the treasures in the Jewel House, the Cullinan Diamonds particularly fascinated her. Cullinan I, the Great Star of Africa atop the Sovereign’s Sceptre, and Cullinan II set in the Imperial State Crown. It wasn’t the brilliance of the jewels that most impressed Pamela, but their history. The original Cullinan Diamond, before it was cut into nine large pieces, was easily twice the size of any previous diamond at the time of its discovery just after turn of the twentieth century. The miner who dug it out, Thomas Evan Powell, handed it over to his boss, Frederick Wells. Wells received £3,500 for it; as far as Pamela could work out, Powell got zip. Its current value was estimated at 400 million dollars.
“Inflation,” Pamela observed wryly to herself.
She thought about miners in Africa dying before their time earning pennies for perilous work so that the elites of the world could indulge their appetite for conspicuous consumption in the unending competition for status. Pamela was well aware of the ironies of her position; self-consciously, she fingered the large white solitaire scintillating on her own right ear. Of course she would modify how she expressed that publicly, or she would be tagged a Marxist, and her ideas would be buried under a ton of media snark. Pamela wasn’t a Marxist. She was all in favor of capitalism. It just needed to be practiced with a moral compass, capitalism with a conscience.
CHAPTER 47
The Plum-Colored Coat
Brandt handed Alice a mug of strong milky tea which he had poured from a thermos. It was the only sustenance they had available. All trace of their presence here would go back into the duffel bag they brought with them to be removed when the job was done.
“Thank you, sir,” said Alice with a quick bob of her head. She sipped at the unfamiliar warm liquid. Tea. It tasted robust and sweet. Only the rich could afford such a drink.
“Glad you like it,” said Brandt with a smile, adding “my Lady.” In her old life, Alice would have regarded that as mockery, but the big man seemed sincere.
Nelson was in the curtained alcove connecting a slender cell phone to a detonating device with wires extending from the lining of an elegant plum-colored velvet ladies’ coat. The explosives were now armed. He carefully replaced the completed device into a pocket in the lining, zipped it up, then rendered the zipper inoperable with a penknife. Just in case she got curious.
Alice shivered and rubbed her arms. She was wearing only the gown of fine material in which she had left the hotel. So she was pleased when the Inquisitor, the man called Nelson, walked over carrying a coat made from rich fabric.
“You’re cold, Alice. Put this on.” Nelson gently took one of her hands, slipped it into a sleeve. “For this important occasion, we have made a special coat for you.” He placed it over her shoulders. She was glad of its warmth.
“It is lovely, but weighty,” said Alice.
“It’s a handsome garment. You want to look well when you meet the Lady, don’t you?”
Nelson guided Alice to the railing at the foot of the narrow staircase that led up to the steel door at the top. He felt like an executioner escorting the condemned onto the scaffold. What manner of men were official executioners, Nelson wondered, like the headsman the deluded girl claimed her father to be? Did they enjoy what they did? Nelson himself no longer received visceral pleasure from the act of killing as much as he did intellectual satisfaction, combined with the adrenaline rush that came from a vigorous game of racket ball.
Alice believed, as she followed this man, that she was a lamb led to slaughter. But facing the unknown beyond that door might be her only chance to save James. Nelson set about opening the heavy steel door resting on runners set in a groove. It had not been opened in decades, prior to his test run a week ago, when he and Brandt spent several hours oiling its moving parts so that it would operate smoothly and quietly when the wheel mounted on the door was rotated. After an initial strain requiring the better part of his strength, the wheel turned and the steel door slid aside. Then he slowly turned the ring mounted on the oak door. They had done similar work to oil away any creaking. The door gave way silently.
Alice felt a gust of warm air waft over her face. She heard the sounds of distant voices in the hall beyond, but all she could see ahead was a high wall made of parchment stretched across a metal frame and mounted on wheels with pictures and writing inscribed on its other side. Nelson led her out to stop behind this twenty-foot long mobile exhibit, a guide to the Hall of Kings, presented to visitors as a giant parchment. In a recent remodeling, two double-buttressed pillars were installed, to increase support for the floor above. In a gesture to authenticity, they had been assembled from rings of the same Kentish rag-stone from which the White Tower had been built nearly one thousand years before. The displays of life-sized wooden horses, figures of kings, and suit upon suit of royal armor had been reorganized into four aisles, spanning the chamber. This wall, facing the aisles, had suffered some discoloration due to water damage and so became a good position for this exhibit.
For Nelson’s purposes, the exhibit concealed his access point, enabling him to bypass the explosive-detecting sensors that screened visitors at the entrance, and made the ideal forward vantage point for the final stage of the plan. Nelson would walk her to the corner from which there was a good view of the central aisle down which all visitors passed. There he would wait till Pamela van Doren and her entourage entered the aisle. Then he would send Alice out to meet her. Brandt was downstairs at the laptop watching the progress of the van Doren party on the security camera output.
“Moments away,” texted Brandt.
As Nelson waited, he felt an inner glow soothe the tension that always accompanied the mission critical stage of an assignment. He was minutes away from earning a quarter of a billion dollars. When and only when news media listed Pamela van Doren among the dead would an escrow account in the Cayman Islands, programmed via a special algorithm, automatically wire the money to accounts Nelson had set up in Moscow, Shanghai, Dubai and Berne. He would tough out the enquiry as a hero of the war on terror, retire a year later, and live like a king.
“Soon,” he said, smiling at Alice.
CHAPTER 48
In the Hall of Kings
Jane vomited on the ground as she was dragged on a sledge towards Tower Hill past a jeering mob. When they had taken her from the cell, a guard, who alone among her escort had looked on her with pity, had placed a copper jug to her lips. She had taken some deep gulps of sweet wine mixed with brackish water. As they neared the hill, the sight of the stake at which she would be burned had unnerved her.
Was this always to have been the place of Alice’s destiny? A small patch of ground where her life would be extinguished? The trunk of a freshly cut pine tree had been embedded in the ground. Logs and bundles of sticks were piled high at its base. A heap of fresh green straw was nearby. Sometimes executioners would put green straw on the bonfire so that the condemned would pass away from smoke asphyxiation before the flames reached them. If she had to die, Jane wanted to do it with dignity, but she feared that courage would fail her in such a barbarous death. There was a strange buzzing in her ears, an otherworldliness separate from the terror she was feeling.
***
Alice leaned against a wall of the Hall of Kings in the White Tower. A little lightheadedness had come upon her, and she heard a humming sound. Don’t go wobbly on me now, thought Nelson standing at her side. Nelson had a plan for the eventuality of Alice losing her nerve. If necessary, he would snap her neck, place the body behind the center of the exhibit, and detonate when the van Doren party stopped in front of it.
“Target,
” read a text from Brandt. Nelson put his eye to a tiny peephole he had cut into the faux parchment.
And there she was, at the far end of the hall, Pamela van Doren, global environmental activist, flanked by her assistants and the Tower guide. Nelson noted she that had shed her cap and let down her conspicuous mane. A gaggle of fellow tourists had spotted her, and were following at a short but respectful distance, stopping wherever she stopped, observing her reaction to each exhibit. They would add a few more to the body count, Nelson thought, establishing the event as a terrorist attack on a symbol of imperialism rather than a targeted assassination.
“The Lady is here,” Nelson said to Alice, as he steered her to the corner of the exhibit.
She peered round and was startled for an instant by the sight of a hall lined with pennants, beneath which stood knights in full armor, some on horseback. She heard no clanking of cuirass, or whinny of horses. Then she realized that the steeds were brightly painted wooden effigies, the helmets and breastplates empty of their knights.
“Look. At the far end of the hall. Pamela van Doren. Do you see her?”
Alice’s heart leapt at the sight of the Princess’ red-golden hair. “Yes, may I go to her now?”
Perfect, thought Nelson. “Approach respectfully and make yourself known to her.” He gestured Alice to go.
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