by Will Adams
Croke took a deep breath. Until now, he’d always had a way out: to throw up his hands and insist he’d simply been passing on bad intelligence in good faith. That defence ran out here. No one would accept bad intelligence as an excuse for digging up the crypt of St Paul’s Cathedral. If they did this and found nothing, he’d be screwed. No money, no friends, no alibis. Everyone’s scapegoat. Thinking about it rationally, it was madness to go on. His only sensible course was to cut his losses and get away.
But a strange thing happened as he stared down at the mosaic floor. He saw that it had an almost Masonic-looking device on it: a triangle within a pair of concentric circles within two squares. The words ‘DEUS EST’ were at the very heart of it, with ‘PATER’ ‘FILIUS’ and ‘SPIRITUS’ in the surrounding circle, one at each point of the triangle, and the words NON EST between them. God is the father. God is the son. God is the holy spirit. But the father is not the son, and the son is not the holy spirit. And he experienced a sudden and vivid memory of a childhood afternoon in his mother’s lap, her arms around him and her intoxicating perfume as she explained to him the mysteries of the trinity with the help of an illustrated children’s bible. He could almost hear the wonder in her voice. She’d always liked things that defied logic. For her, irrationality had merely added to their power.
The father is not the son, and the son is not the holy spirit.
He took a deep breath. He’d got in to this business for Grant’s seventy million dollars, but that wasn’t what he was thinking about right now. Right now, he was thinking about destiny. Right now, he was thinking about immortality. ‘I want to see it,’ he told Morgenstern. ‘I think it’s down there, and I want to see it.’
‘Me too,’ grinned Morgenstern. He held up his cellphone. ‘But I’m going to need to clear it back home, like I said. So if you’ll excuse me …’
Croke nodded. ‘They’ll try to fob you off with flunkies,’ he said. ‘Don’t let them. Not for this. For this, you’re going to need to speak to the lady herself.’
THIRTY-FIVE
I
It had been a shock for Luke to see Jay first talking with their captors, then intervening on his and Rachel’s behalf. He’d tried to resist the implication that his old friend not only knew these people but was working with them, had been working with them from the start. But the inference became inescapable. He glanced at Rachel. Her eyes were closed and her head was bowed slightly forwards, as if in prayer. She’d recovered some of her colour since her ordeal on the balcony, but she still looked shattered. And he didn’t feel so good himself, though he tried not to let it show. He wanted to give her confidence, make her think he had a plan. Yet his only plan involved using Jay somehow, and the thought of that sickened him, for Jay had sold them out.
The bruiser was on sentry duty across the room, playing games on a tablet. He grew bored, went to the door to talk to whoever was on guard outside. Luke glanced across at Jay and jerked his head in summons.
‘What is it?’ asked Jay, coming across.
‘You know these people,’ murmured Luke. ‘How do you know these people?’
‘My uncle,’ said Jay, glancing at the door, clearly nervous of overstepping some obscure line. ‘This is his project. That’s how come I can protect you, because tonight won’t happen without him.’
‘Tonight?’ asked Luke. ‘What’s tonight?’
Jay shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that. But everything’s going to be okay. Trust me.’
‘Trust you?’ scowled Luke. ‘You’ve been working with them all along. You gave us to them.’
‘I tried to keep you out of it,’ said Jay. ‘I swear I did. That’s why I sent you to the Monument.’
‘Oi!’ said the bruiser. ‘Shut it, you two.’
Luke ignored him. ‘You got these people to hire me in the first place, didn’t you? To find the Newton papers, I mean.’
Jay looked anguished. ‘You said you needed work. I thought I’d be helping.’
‘But why?’ asked Luke. ‘Why not do it yourself?’
‘I hate that kind of thing,’ said Jay. ‘Dealing with strangers. I’m no good at it. And, anyway, I was too busy double-checking all Newton’s other manuscripts.’
‘Enough,’ said the bruiser. He strode across and pressed the taser against Luke’s throat. ‘Or maybe you’d rather have a taste?’
‘No,’ said Luke. ‘I’ll be good.’
II
While Morgenstern called the White House, Croke attended to some business of his own. He set up office in an empty room then sent Avram an email detailing latest developments plus a link for the video-feed. After that, he checked to see if Grant had yet honoured his part of their deal.
He logged onto the website of Rutherford amp; Small’s, a boutique British Virgin Islands bank. He entered the account number, password and security code. And there it was, enough to jolt his heart into a pleasurable canter.
$70,000,000.00
It wasn’t his yet, however. Not by any means. He and Grant used a three-stage payment system for jobs like these. In this, the first stage, Grant would lodge the full sum in an existing, mission-specific account, allowing Croke to check that it was there. But all he could do for the moment was look. Later tonight, once Avram had launched his assault, Grant would send Croke new passwords giving him veto power over all future transactions, effectively turning this into an escrow account. Only then would Croke deliver his cargo and so fulfil his side of the deal, at which point Grant would give up his residual control of the funds, and the money would be Croke’s.
He logged out and returned to the crypt. A pair of diamond-tipped saws were screeching and sparking against the mosaics, throwing up small clouds of grit and dust. ‘She said yes, then, I take it?’ he asked Morgenstern, almost having to shout to make himself be heard.
‘She said yes,’ grinned Morgenstern, handing him a pair of safety goggles. ‘I knew she would. It’s her destiny.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I told her we’d be through by eight p.m. our time. She’s cleared her schedule to watch it live. And she’s promised to have a word with Downing Street, make sure they don’t give us any grief.’
‘Can she swing that?’
‘So she says. Apparently we’ve got footage of the new PM.’
‘Footage?’ Croke squinted incredulously at him. ‘You don’t mean girl footage?’
‘Even better. Boy footage.’
Croke laughed happily. ‘Outstanding.’
‘We’re going to pull it off,’ said Morgenstern. ‘I can’t believe it: we’re really going to pull it off.’
‘We’re not home yet,’ warned Croke. ‘We don’t even know it’s down there.’
‘It’s down there,’ said Morgenstern. ‘I told you: this is destiny.’
‘Maybe. But destiny won’t get it to City Airport.’
The NCT man frowned. ‘Why will that be a problem?’
‘Are you kidding? The whole world’s watching. Anything leaving here in a truck is going to take a trail of media like you wouldn’t believe. And I don’t just mean helicopters and cars and vans that maybe you can block off or pressure to look the other way. I mean every Londoner with a camera-phone and a Twitter account. If we’re seen going to the airport, if we’re seen boarding my plane, this is over. The PM may control British airspace, but it’s not British airspace I’m worried about.’
‘Then what do we do?’ asked Morgenstern.
Croke nodded at Nelson’s tomb. ‘What would you do if there really was something down there? I mean, imagine that terrorists had used the sewers or the underground or whatever to mine their way beneath the crypt and plant some kind of dirty bomb.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Humour me. You must have contingency plans. What would they call for?’
Morgenstern frowned. ‘We’d evacuate the area, as we’ve already done. We’d bring in experts to assess and then disarm the device. We’d load any radioactive materi
als into a nuclear container, then take it to a suitable facility for analysis and disposal.’
‘Civilian or military?’
‘Depends. A warhead would have to be military. But dirty bombs are typically just TNT packed inside some spent fuel rods and other high-grade waste. Power stations deal with that kind of shit all the time.’
‘Where’s the nearest?’
‘Sizewell, I think. On the Suffolk coast.’
Croke nodded. He’d visited Suffolk many years before, on one of his father’s tours of the USAF bases there. ‘And you’d give this container the full escort, right? Police cars and bike outriders, maybe a security truck or two. And you’d clear the roads so there was no danger of getting stuck in traffic?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘When we came in from the airport yesterday, we passed through a long tunnel.’
‘The Limehouse Link,’ said Morgenstern.
‘That’s on the way to Suffolk, isn’t it?’
‘It could be. But why would that …’ He laughed out loud when he saw the answer. ‘Yeah, it could work. But what about when we get to Sizewell and they find nothing in the container?’
Croke shrugged. That wasn’t his problem. ‘Can’t you find some old fuel rods to put in it?’
‘Not a chance. Not at this notice.’
‘Then why not take it to a USAF base instead? They’re up that way, aren’t they? And nuclear equipped?’
‘Not any more. We shipped the warheads home.’
‘But the bases still have handling capability, right? In case they ever wanted to bring them back?’
‘So?’
‘Imagine something were to happen on your way to Sizewell. Imagine getting a tip off that terrorists are planning to attack your convoy, say. So you make an executive decision to divert to the nearest USAF base instead, because the bomb will be safe there. Once you’re inside, you’re as good as on US soil. Home free.’
‘The Brits will go ballistic,’ said Morgenstern.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Fuck no,’ grinned Morgenstern. ‘More like a bonus.’
III
Avram and Shlomo parked side by side in a new lot off Ma’aleh Shalom, south of the Old City. The most direct route in was through the Dung Gate, but they couldn’t risk the extra security of the Western Wall Plaza, so they entered through Zion Gate instead. Avram led the way, not once looking back at Danel and his companions. Twice he saw squads of police ahead, but he knew these alleys so well that avoiding them was no problem.
The safe house was a one-bedroom basement apartment. He unlocked the door and left it ajar behind him. It was dark, stuffy and smelly inside. Apart from his own sporadic checks, no one had been in here for a year. But the place had everything he needed, including electricity, running water and a connection to a satellite dish. He hooked the laptop up to it now, while Danel and the others came in and bolted the door behind them, then he checked for messages from Croke. He had two, one with a link for video-feed, the other telling him to tune in at 8 p.m. London time.
‘Show us, then,’ said Danel. ‘This thing of yours.’
‘Not yet,’ said Avram, showing him Croke’s email. ‘And we need to go through the plan again anyway.’
‘We’ve already been through the plan.’
‘Not with the others, we haven’t.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I’ll fetch them now. But Ana and Ruth can’t be here when I come back. We’ll meet them later by the truck.’
Danel scowled. ‘Who do these people think they are?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Avram. ‘They can’t be here.’
He patted himself down to make certain he wasn’t carrying anything compromising and headed out for the Western Wall. The plaza was thronged when he arrived, buzzing with the euphoria of faith. Monday nights were usually desultory affairs, but the anniversary of the Six Day War had brought out the crowds. His heart swelled as he looked around: these people didn’t know it, but their long exile from the Mount was almost over. An old acquaintance waved to him. He nodded back, but with a studiedly sombre expression to make it clear he wasn’t free to talk.
Shlomo and his men were standing in a small knot by the foot of the steps. He didn’t look at them, but walked slowly past them to make sure he was seen. Then he went to the wall itself.
He’d already composed his brief imprecation. Or, more accurately, Isaiah had composed it for him, and he’d merely copied it out.
And it shall come to pass in the last days that the Lord’s house shall be established in the mountains, and shall be exalted above the hills.
He folded the paper into tight fractions of itself, fitted it into a crevice high in the wall. For the first time in his adult life he felt something like peace as he prayed here, that nagging internal voice finally stilled. The Lord, praise His Name, had granted him the gift of life. Now, at long last, he’d have his chance to show his gratitude.
THIRTY-SIX
I
The afternoon was brutal for Luke. The floor of their makeshift prison was cold and hard, the cuffs chafed his wrists raw, and every time either he or Rachel said anything to Jay or to each other, the bruiser would threaten them with his taser. And then there was the fear. It had been one thing coping with occasional spikes of it over the past day or so, but now it was a constant, crippling dread. And not just for himself. The thought that something terrible might happen to Rachel because of him was a special kind of torment.
Shadows on the facing wall marked the slow passage of time. Day ceded to evening. The room grew gloomy enough for the bruiser to turn on lights. Others came and went, murmuring by the door. They didn’t realize that the room’s acoustics made snatches of their discussions sufficiently audible for Luke to learn their names. The bruiser was Pete, Blackbeard was Kieran, and their fair-haired boss was Walters. The three of them seemed to work for the American called Croke, who now appeared at the door and beckoned to Jay. ‘We’re almost through,’ he said. ‘Time to come with me.’
‘I’m not leaving my friends,’ Jay told him.
‘You have to. Your uncle insists.’
‘I’m not leaving them.’
Croke sighed. ‘Don’t make me use force.’
‘Force may get me downstairs,’ Jay said prissily. ‘It can’t make me talk to my uncle.’
Croke nodded to Pete. Pete grabbed Jay by his wrist. Jay began to wail and shriek like a spoiled toddler. Pete shrugged and looked to Croke for permission to teach him manners. Croke shook his head. Rather to Luke’s surprise, Jay did indeed have real leverage. That was a limited consolation, however, so long as he and Rachel were held up here, far from safety. He spoke without really thinking. ‘Take us down with you,’ he said. ‘We won’t cause any trouble. We give you our word.’
‘Your word!’ scoffed Croke.
‘Yes,’ said Luke. ‘Our word.’
Croke walked over, crouched down in front of him. ‘I want you to remember something,’ he said. ‘We’re still holding your two friends from Oxford. Fuck with me and it won’t just be your own neck you’ll forfeit. Understand?’
‘We understand,’ said Rachel.
Croke stood up again, turned around to Walters. ‘Can you handle them?’
‘As long as they’re all friendlies downstairs,’ said Walters.
‘They’re all friendlies,’ Croke assured him. ‘But they might not exactly welcome spectators.’ He bit his lower lip. ‘Take them to the cathedral floor; only bring them down to the crypt once we’ve broken through. That way we’ll present them with a fait accompli.’
‘How will we know when you break through?’ asked Walters.
Croke laughed. ‘We’re taking up half the floor. I imagine you’ll hear us.’
Jay came across once he was gone. ‘I told you they needed me,’ he said.
‘Your uncle, more like,’ said Luke. ‘Who the hell is he?’
‘A great man, Luke. A great man.’
He sounded exuberant now that the skirmish had been won. ‘You’ll like him. You’ll both really like him. He’s not a scientist or a historian, but he knows his Newton, honestly he does.’
‘You never mentioned him before.’
‘I didn’t know him until recently. He’s not really my uncle. My third cousin twice removed. He just likes us to call him Uncle.’
‘Us?’
Jay shook his head and turned more towards Rachel. ‘You have to understand,’ he said. ‘Not every page that Newton ever wrote has been checked and translated and understood. Not properly. Not by a Newton expert. Not by someone who knows Greek, Latin, Hebrew and French as well as English. Not by someone familiar with his handwriting and abbreviations, who understands his natural philosophy, theology and alchemy. That’s my project: to study everything he ever wrote. Every page, every sentence, every word.’
‘Out of my way, kid,’ said Walters. He uncuffed Luke and Rachel from the radiators, allowing them to stand, stretch, flex their fingers. ‘No games,’ he warned.
‘No games,’ agreed Luke.
Jay walked alongside them to the door, eager to finish telling them about his self-appointed mission. ‘Every word that Newton ever wrote,’ he said. ‘Mostly, it’s easy. The papers have all been photographed and put online. I never even have to leave my flat. But not everything’s like that.’ They reached the steps, began heading down. ‘Not all the Yahuda Archive is available online, for example. That’s why I had to go to Jerusalem, to see the rest for myself. I hate going to new places. But I have family there, so I got in touch with them. That’s when Uncle Avram offered me a room. He even arranged a special pass for me at the National Library of Israel. And that’s where I found them, on the reverse of a pair of pages about the ancient cubit: faint traces of ancient texts and sketches that Newton had himself rubbed out, but not perfectly-’
‘Shut it,’ said Walters, as they neared the foot of the steps. ‘I want silence.’