by Will Adams
Kieran tapped keys on his laptop. ‘Got him,’ he said. ‘Apartment Two, the Old Maltings, Horningsea. That’s just a couple of miles north of here.’
‘Good. Then let’s go finish this.’
II
‘Saloman’s House?’ frowned Pelham. ‘Why does that sound familiar?’
‘Sir Francis Bacon,’ said Luke. ‘He wrote a book called The New Atlantis that contained a kind of blueprint for academic research institutions. He called it Salomon’s House. Named after Solomon, of course, but with the first O changed to an A. It was the inspiration for the Royal Society. That’s why they call you guys fellows. Because that’s what Bacon called your equivalents in The New Atlantis.’
‘You guys?’ asked Rachel, looking incredulously at Pelham. ‘You’re not seriously telling me he’s a fellow of the Royal Society?’
Pelham laughed cheerfully. ‘What’s the world coming to, eh?’
‘It’s how we originally hooked up,’ Luke told her. ‘I helped write a documentary on Newton for the Beeb a little while back.’
‘That was you? I saw that. It was terrific.’
‘Thanks. Anyway, we wanted to replicate some of Newton’s alchemical experiments, so I asked the Royal Society if they had anyone interested in that kind of thing who might be prepared to help.’ He nodded at Pelham. ‘Bastards gave me him.’
‘Alchemy’s a hobby of mine,’ explained Pelham. ‘It’s how I first got interested in chemistry myself, so I figured it might do the trick for other kids. There’s this show I’ve put together that I sometimes take around the local schools.’
‘A show?’ asked Rachel.
‘Yeah. You know the kind of thing. Put on the Harry Potter costume, mix some chemicals together, make things fizz and smoke and bang.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘And damned rewarding too.’
‘Working with kids?’
‘Fuck, no. Turning base metals into gold. So much easier than actually having to work.’
‘You’ve cracked it, then?’ asked Rachel.
‘Any day now. Just waiting for Neptune to align with Mars.’
‘Come on, guys,’ pleaded Luke. ‘A bit of focus, please. What do you think this means?’
Pelham shrugged. ‘I guess that Ashmole left these papers and this other stuff to Newton so that he could hide it somewhere in the Royal Society.’
‘But why wouldn’t Ashmole just have hidden it there himself?’ asked Rachel. ‘You did say he was a member, right?’
‘The note says that it needed to be “completed” before it was hidden,’ said Pelham. ‘Maybe only Newton could do that.’
‘Ashmole was a bit-part player at the Royal Society anyway,’ added Luke. ‘Newton was its star. In fact …’ He trailed off, went over to Pelham’s desk, ran a search on his laptop, brought up the Royal Society’s home page.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Rachel, watching over his shoulder.
‘The Royal Society didn’t have a permanent home for its first forty or fifty years. They just switched between rooms in Gresham College and Arundel House. But then they made Newton president, and about the first thing he did was set about buying them a place of their own.’
‘Carlton House Terrace?’ asked Pelham.
‘No. This was way before you guys moved there. I don’t remember the exact address, but it was just off Fleet Street.’ He reached the Royal Society’s Our History page, scanned the text. ‘Crane Court,’ he said. ‘That’s it.’ He pulled up a new tab, ran a new search. The top five links were all to breaking news stories, thumbnails of police officers in yellow bibs. ‘What the hell?’ he muttered. He clicked the top link. A newsflash from the AP, Crane Court being evacuated because of a bomb scare. He looked around in shock at Pelham and Rachel.
Pelham shook his head. ‘It’s coincidence,’ he said. ‘It has to be.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Luke. ‘They did exactly what we just did: they worked out that Newton had hidden this thing in Crane Court, so they invented a bomb scare and closed the whole place down so that they could search it.’
Rachel looked stunned. ‘Who are these people?’
‘They’re way out of our league, that’s for sure.’
Pelham nodded grimly. ‘If you’re right about this, and they did get my licence, they’ll be here in no time. I vote we get out now.’
‘And go where?’
‘My sister’s got a place in the Cotswolds. Keys under the dustbin, linen in the closet. We can stay there until we work out what’s going on and devise some kind of plan.’ He picked up his wallet, car keys and phone, stowed them in his pockets.
‘Not your phone, mate,’ said Luke. ‘They’ll trace us through it.’ Pelham nodded bleakly, pulled it back out. Luke touched his arm. ‘Listen: it’s me they want, not you or Rachel. If you two keep your heads down for a day or so, I’m sure they’ll-’
‘Fuck that,’ said Pelham. ‘You’re my friend. But you’ll owe me big for this. So next time I need you vouching that I kipped the night at your place, no more of that ethics bullshit you gave me last time. Okay?’
‘Fair enough.’ He turned to Rachel. ‘How about you?’
‘Those bastards tasered me in the back,’ she said. ‘But I want you to promise me something. I want you both to promise.’
‘What?’
A touch of shame pinked her cheeks as she gathered the printouts together. ‘If we ever get the originals back, they’re mine. Aunt Penny wanted me to have them, and I need them. My brother needs them.’
‘What for?’
She shook her head. ‘He just needs them, okay?’
A siren in the distance. They turned towards it, bracing themselves for disaster. But almost at once it began to fade. ‘Fine,’ said Pelham. ‘The originals are yours. Now let’s get the hell out of here.’
III
It was a dismal drive in from City Airport through East London, dual carriageways punched through shabby housing estates and brutalist tower blocks. But at least it was quick. Then, however, they entered some long tunnel and the traffic started to congeal. By the time they finally emerged, it was pretty much locked solid. Their driver put a siren on their roof, used it to bully his way through. They passed St Paul’s Cathedral, reached the bottom of Ludgate Hill. The police had shut off Fleet Street with metal barriers, forcing traffic to turn right or left, but another squirt of siren saw them through.
They nudged through thin crowds of Sunday afternoon sightseers. Digital cameras and phones pressed against their windows; flashes popped. Croke fought the urge to shield his face; it was too late anyway, and would only draw attention. They passed through more barriers into a cordoned-off area, drove beneath a canvas awning that allowed them to exit the Range Rover without being photographed. They walked through a short, arched brick passageway and emerged into Crane Court itself, a flagstoned alley with old, low and wide redbrick buildings to their right, taller, modern ones to their left, the ugly backsides of offices and other businesses.
A senior policeman, to judge from his age and uniform, was in heated discussion with a youngish man in a dark suit. ‘Wait here,’ said Morgenstern. He went to join the conversation, came back after a minute, brow furrowed. ‘Problem,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That prick in the uniform. He’s media liaison. I’ve dealt with him before. All he cares about is how good he looks on the TV news.’
‘So?’
‘So he’s due to give a briefing. Says he won’t do it until he knows why we’re searching all the buildings. He says if our information is any good, surely we know which one to search. And if our information isn’t any good, why go in so fast? Why not hang back and watch?’
Croke nodded. It was a sensible question. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘That the threat may not be very specific, but it is imminent.’
‘That didn’t work?’
He shook his head. ‘I know this guy. He’s going
to background brief that this is all kabuki, designed to make Londoners scared. And if people start asking those kind of questions …’
Croke nodded. ‘Can we escalate?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Have your search teams put on HazMat uniforms, wave some Geiger counters around.’
Morgenstern squinted at him like he was crazy. ‘You want people thinking we’ve got a dirty bomb on our hands?’
‘It would explain why we couldn’t risk waiting, wouldn’t it?’
Morgenstern laughed. ‘I’m going to enjoy working with you,’ he said.
FOURTEEN
I
Even as Walters turned into the Maltings, he spotted the red BMW parked up against a grassy bank at the foot of the main building. ‘Got them!’ he exulted. But the building’s main doors opened at that moment, and Luke, Rachel and Pelham hurried out and made straight for their car.
Walters maintained a steady pace, not wanting to attract attention. But Luke spotted him anyway. He yelled to the others and they sprinted for the BMW, climbed inside. Walters spurted the SUV forwards then braked sharply so that his front bumper was flush against their rear, blocking their escape. He jumped out, tried the BMW’s back door. Too late. Already locked. He glared in through the back window. The girl, Rachel, was holding a sheaf of sepia-and-black pages, printouts of the Newton papers. Rage coursed through him. He punched the glass, but only hurt his hand.
Kieran tried the doors on the other side, but they were locked too. It was Pete who found the more practical approach. He clambered on to the soft top and tried to tear the fabric free from its moorings. But Redfern started up the BMW and shot it forwards up the grass bank until his bumper hit the Maltings’ front wall. Then he swung the wheel hard around and reversed back down, clipping the SUV before racing away. He turned sharply, accelerating across the car park with Pete still on his roof before screeching to an abrupt halt and sending him tumbling down the BMW’s bonnet and across the tarmac. Then they were off and away.
Walters climbed back into the SUV to give chase, but by the time he’d picked up Kieran and Pete, the BMW was nowhere in sight. They drove around for a little while in hopes of seeing it, but without reward. ‘Now what?’ asked Pete.
‘We need to find them,’ said Walters.
‘How?’
‘Maybe they left something back at Redfern’s place.’
‘What if one of his neighbours has called in the filth?’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
They went back, watched the entrance for fifteen minutes. No sign of the police. No sign of anyone. They parked in a guest slot and Pete soon had them inside. Redfern’s apartment was a mess, and they found little of any use. The smartphone on the desk made Walters curse, for they’d evidently got serious about covering their tracks. He pocketed it anyway; it would make it easy to identify Redfern’s contacts. He checked the drawers next, found paperwork for the rented BMW. It gave him an idea, though making it happen was way above his own pay grade. He took a deep breath then called his boss.
‘I don’t believe this,’ snapped Croke, when Walters had brought him up to speed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be good at this kind of thing.’
‘With respect, sir, we’ve been unlucky.’
‘Unlucky!’ scoffed Croke. ‘These people can do me damage. I want them found before that happens. I want them silenced and I want their copy of the papers destroyed. Am I clear?’
‘That’s why I called, sir. The thing is, Redfern’s BMW has SatNav. We should be able to track them through it.’
‘SatNavs are receive only,’ said Croke.
‘Most are, yes,’ persevered Walters. ‘But this is a rental. Rental companies often fit receive and transmit systems to monitor their fleet, recover stolen cars. The girl in the office here as good as told me they use a system like that, only they run it out of St Albans. They’d never give that kind of info to a nobody like me. But you seem to have some pretty influential friends.’
A beat or two of silence. ‘Okay,’ said Croke, grudgingly. ‘Give me Redfern’s licence number. I’ll see what I can do.’
II
In the back of the BMW, Rachel watched anxiously for pursuit. She couldn’t see anything, yet her heart kept pounding all the same. That man on the roof; the noise of him trying to tear his way through the fabric. And the look on his blond companion’s face when he’d seen the papers in her hand; she’d never before seen murder so plainly written on a human face.
She turned to face front, assuming that Luke and Pelham would be equally shaken. To her surprise, however, they both appeared almost calm. In the passenger seat, Luke was flicking between radio channels in search of bulletins from Crane Court, while Pelham was driving in characteristically negligent fashion, slouched in his seat with his legs splayed wide and his wrist on the wheel. Something in their manner proved contagious, and her own nerves began to settle.
They reached dual carriageway, headed west. The road’s surface had recently been re-laid, and it was so tacky from the sun that it sounded almost like driving through shallow water. Luke finally gave up his hunt for news and turned the radio down low. Relative silence gave Rachel the opportunity to brood and reminded her of how little she knew about these two. If they were to be fugitives together, she needed to learn more. On the other hand, she didn’t want to antagonise them with crude questions, so she leaned forwards between the front seats and turned to Pelham. ‘I bet you get asked this all the time,’ she said. ‘But where did you get your first name?’
‘The folks were Wodehouse fans,’ he told her. ‘How sick is that?’
‘He was a wonderful writer.’
‘So was Dickens. So was Tolstoy. No shortage of wonderful writers with cracking first names. I’d have made a great Leo, if you ask me. Big, king-like and extremely dangerous. But no, I get fucking Pelham.’
‘It could have been worse,’ she pointed out. ‘They could have been Bronte fans.’
He laughed and threw her an admiring glance. ‘So do you have a bloke, then, Rachel?’
Luke put his head in his hands. ‘Jesus, mate,’ he sighed.
‘A bloke?’ asked Rachel.
‘A man. A boyfriend. You must have come across the concept. Someone to rush home from work for, so you can do his ironing.’
‘Ah. A bloke. Then no. Not just at the moment.’
‘Outstanding,’ grinned Pelham. ‘Tell you what. When this business is all over and done with, how about you, me, Mozart and some moonlight? The chance of a lifetime, though I say so myself. I mean, how many Nobel laureates have you ever been out with?’
She looked at him in disbelief. ‘You’ve won the Nobel Prize?’ she asked.
‘Of course he bloody hasn’t,’ said Luke.
‘Maybe not technically,’ admitted Pelham, ‘but I assure you it’s just a matter of time. And this way you get to say you knew me when.’ He turned to face her again, letting the BMW drift alarmingly from their lane, so that Luke had to grab the wheel and course-correct them. ‘Come on. How about it?’
‘I’m really flattered,’ said Rachel. ‘But, honestly, I don’t think I could go out with a man called Pelham.’
‘Fucking parents,’ scowled Pelham. ‘I tell you something: that man Larkin knew what he was about.’
‘Hey!’ said Luke, holding up a hand for silence while turning the radio back up loud to catch a chaotic Crane Court press conference in progress, a crowd of reporters shouting out questions.
‘What’s in there?’ yelled one of them. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Then what’s with the HazMat suits?’
‘Purely precautionary, I assure you.’
‘Precautionary for what? Anthrax? A dirty bomb?’
‘Is this to do with the memorial service?’ yelled a woman.
‘The what?’
‘The Royal Family are going to parade past here on their way to the memorial service
at St Paul’s on Tuesday night. Has this investigation got anything to do with that?’
‘No comment. Now if you’ll excuse me.’
The press conference ended in a bedlam of unanswered questions. A reporter summed up and handed back to the studio. Luke turned the volume back down. ‘A dirty bomb. Jesus. They’re not holding back, are they?’
‘You reckon they’ve found it?’ asked Rachel.
‘I reckon we won’t hear a peep if they have.’
‘No.’ She sat back and spread the Newton papers out on the rear seat beside her, read again the enigmatic note on the sixth page. ‘And you guys can’t think what it was that Ashmole might have left Newton?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know a thing about Ashmole, apart from that Dee connection,’ said Pelham. ‘At least, there is one thing — but you’ll think me terribly immature.’
‘More than for owning a Harry Potter costume?’ asked Rachel.
‘Ouch,’ laughed Pelham. ‘Okay. Ashmole sometimes published under a pseudonym.’
‘What’s so immature about that?’
‘I only remember because of the name he chose: James Asshole.’
Rachel couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Sadly, no. It was actually James Hasolle. But close enough, you know. Hey, I was an undergraduate. And, to be fair, it is an anagram of his name.’
‘They loved their anagrammatic pseudonyms back then,’ said Luke. ‘Newton called himself Jeova Sanctus Unus: One holy god.’
‘No way is that an anagram of Isaac Newton,’ protested Rachel.
‘Of Isaacus Neuutonus, it is,’ said Luke. ‘If you allow a little latitude, at least: “i” for “j”; a “u” for a “v”. That kind of thing.’
‘One holy god,’ smiled Rachel. ‘Didn’t think much of himself, did he?’
‘He could be pretty conceited,’ agreed Luke. ‘He believed he was some kind of seventeenth-century counterpart of the prophets. An adept with special insight into the true nature of God and His universe. And not just any adept, but the greatest of the modern age, the successor of Moses, Elijah and Solomon, a man whose lifework was an important prelude to the Second Coming.’