by Tom Becker
“You are sure this is the right place to dig, right?”
The fire-eater considered the question. “Fairly sure. Now stop mucking about and give me a hand – this hole won’t dig itself.”
And with that, Correlli smashed the pick down on to the pavement.
10.42 p.m.
Vegard Amundsen was in the middle of writing a speech about whaling when his secretary knocked respectfully at his study door. The Norwegian Ambassador put down his fountain pen and removed his glasses before answering.
“Yes?”
A broad-shouldered man in a suit entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Ambassador, but there are two gentlemen from the police here. They need to speak to you. Apparently it’s urgent.”
“Well, you’d better send them in, Thomas.”
The secretary nodded. Amundsen carefully replaced the cap on his pen, wondering what on earth the police could want to see him about. In four years in London, he had spent the majority of his time at official functions and parties, mingling with his fellow diplomats and giving the occasional talk. Hardly matters of national security. And he only had an hour before he was supposed to deliver this speech. Why did these things always have to happen at the most inconvenient times?
Thomas returned with a policeman in tow. The officer looked round the room, openly admiring the lavish décor and the oil paintings hanging on the walls. As the man respectfully removed his hat, Amundsen couldn’t help noticing that he was an albino.
“Thank you for seeing me at such a late hour, Ambassador.”
“That’s fine – I was still working. Thomas, could you get us some tea, please?”
The albino smiled as the secretary withdrew. “Tea? I see you’ve gone native.”
“When in Rome. . .” Amundsen replied, laughing. “Please, sit down. What can I do for you, officer?”
The albino took a seat, casually balancing his hat on his crossed legs. “I don’t want to alarm you, sir, but we’ve just received intelligence that a gang of criminals are planning a robbery in the area. We’re informing all the embassies in the vicinity, and checking that their security arrangements are in place . . . Ambassador?”
“Hmmm?”
Amundsen had been momentarily distracted by a faint thud from the other side of the building. Sternly, he told himself to concentrate. “To be quite frank, officer, I can’t imagine we’ll have any problems here. The Norwegian Embassy hasn’t proved too tempting a target for criminals in the past.”
“Even so, Ambassador, we’re taking this intelligence very seriously. You have security cameras posted around the building?”
“Naturally – all linked to the control room on the second floor. I also have a team of bodyguards patrolling the building.”
The albino’s pink eyes narrowed. “And how many are on duty tonight?”
“Just three tonight, and Thomas of course. I have a function to go to, I am giving a speech. . .” He gestured at the paper in front of him.
“I understand completely,” the policeman said smoothly. “I won’t detain you any longer than necessary.”
A thought suddenly struck Amundsen. “Excuse me, but Thomas said there were two policemen here. Where is your colleague?”
“He’s inspecting your peripheral security. No doubt he’ll be along in a minute.”
There was a loud crash from the other side of the door. Despite himself, Amundsen shook his head. Really, Thomas was clumsy beyond belief. That was probably the china tea set the Queen had given him now lying in pieces on the floor.
“In fact,” the albino said, “that sounds like him now.”
The door opened again, and another policeman walked through. This man was much taller and more unkempt. He was half-shaven, and tufts of hair poked out from underneath his hat. His shirt was hanging out from his trousers and there was a rip in his jacket. The albino smiled brightly at him.
“Three guards, and the secretary,” he reported.
“All dealt with,” the new man growled.
The albino turned back to the Ambassador and stared at him thoughtfully. The atmosphere in the study had assumed a menacing quality. Amundsen realized that something was terribly wrong. Never a man to be flustered, he drew himself stiffly up behind his desk.
“I demand that you tell me what’s going on here,” he said.
“I told you,” the albino replied. “There’s going to be a robbery in the area tonight. We should know – we’re the ones who are going to do it.”
“But . . . why?” Amundsen gasped. “What could you possibly want here?”
“Oh, we don’t want anything here.” He pointed over the ambassador’s shoulder. “It’s there we want to get into.”
Trembling, the Norwegian ambassador turned and looked through the window at the brooding shape of Cornelius Xavier’s mansion. The last thing he heard was the albino saying delicately, “Carnegie – would you mind. . .?” and then there was a footstep and something heavy landed on the back of Amundsen’s skull, sending him spiralling away into the darkness.
10.47 p.m.
Correlli saw a light flick on and off inside the Norwegian Embassy and grunted with satisfaction.
“The building’s secure.”
Jonathan stopped digging for a second and looked up. “I knew Carnegie wouldn’t let us down,” he said proudly.
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Correlli replied darkly. “How’s that hole coming on?”
Jonathan inspected the small crater they had dug in the pavement. “Shouldn’t be much deeper now. In fact. . .” He stabbed his spade down into the earth, and there was a dull ringing noise. “I think we’re there.”
The fire-eater inspected his watch. “Just in time. Verv’s going to be here in a few minutes. Here, let me do this.”
Correlli hauled Jonathan out of the hole and dropped down into it. He spat on his hands and lofted the pick into the air.
“Let’s hope we’re in the right spot. . .” he said, and brought the pick down with an almighty clang.
Immediately the surrounding streetlights blinked with surprise and then went out, bathing the road in darkness. In the faint glow of the lights on the traffic cones, Jonathan saw Correlli shrug.
“You were only meant to knock out Xavier’s place!” Jonathan hissed.
“Better safe than sorry,” said Correlli, scrambling out of the hole. “Time to get inside.”
10.50 p.m.
One of the twins opened the door to the Norwegian Embassy – whether Fray or Nettle, Jonathan couldn’t be sure. As she was dressed in a jet-black bodysuit, complete with balaclava, it was difficult to make her out at all in the darkness. On seeing the two arrivals, she curtsied gratefully.
“Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Thank you, Nettle,” Correlli said drily, pushing past her into the building and heading up the stairs. “Playtime’s over, though. No more jokes.”
Nettle made a rude gesture behind his back, and draped an arm over Jonathan’s shoulder.
“I’d forgotten what a grump he can be. Takes all the fun out of thieving.”
She was unusually friendly – giddy even. With a start Jonathan realized that she was nervous too. For some reason, it made him feel slightly better.
They hurried to the top floor of the embassy and through an access door that led out on to the roof. From this height, Jonathan had a panoramic view of the grand Kensington houses, all huddled together in the darkness. Mountebank, Fray and Carnegie had congregated in a small circle, dressed in identical black outfits – the wereman had even left his stovepipe hat behind. Carnegie glanced at Jonathan as he walked carefully across the rooftop towards them.
“I see you put the lights out.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Jonathan replied defensiv
ely. “I don’t think any security cameras in London are working right now, let alone Xavier’s.”
The wereman chuckled humourlessly and mimed a round of applause.
“Remember,” announced Correlli, exchanging his overalls for black clothing, “after Verv’s show, the police are going to be on the scene pretty quickly. Now, we know that Xavier’s not going to let them in, but if they start poking around here, we’re going to be in trouble. We’ve got twenty minutes maximum. We’re coming out after that, whether we’ve got the Stone or not.” He looked everyone in the eye in turn.
“Ripper be with you all,” Correlli said finally, and went to stand by the edge of the roof.
10.59 p.m.
Xavier’s mansion stood implacable in the darkness. In the grounds, torchlight beams swept back and forth as the guards patrolled the area.
Looking down from the rooftop, Jonathan felt sick with nerves. He swallowed and scraped his tongue across dry lips. Around him, the Troupe stood abreast, waiting. Jonathan was amazed to see Fray and Nettle silently hug one other.
“Do you think that Verv will be on time?” he whispered to Correlli, adjusting his balaclava. “It’s just he seems a bit . . . you know . . . all over the place. He wouldn’t get the time wrong, would he?”
Gazing hungrily at the building before them, the fire-eater said nothing.
11.00 p.m.
From the bottom of the road there came a squealing of tyres, and a dark blue car came flying up the street. Above the throaty roar of the engine, Jonathan was sure he heard a maniacal whoop of delight from the driver’s seat.
“Here he comes. . .” breathed Correlli. “Ready?”
The car flew past the Norwegian Embassy, bumped up on to the pavement, and crashed head first into the main gate of the Xavier mansion.
18
The next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. There was a booming echo as the car ploughed into the gate, which buckled and wobbled but held firm. Cries of alarm floated up from the grounds of the mansion, and there was the crunching noise of footsteps racing across the gravel. Down on the street, the tiny, Mohicaned figure of Verv disentangled himself from the wreckage of the car. He tossed something in the back seat and scampered away, whooping as he went. Fray glanced at her sister.
“Light the touch paper . . .”
“. . . and stand well back.”
A huge explosion rocked Slavia Avenue, so bright that Jonathan was forced to shield his face with his hand. He looked back to see the car engulfed in a fountain of fire, and Xavier’s guards taking cover near the front gate.
“Our turn,” said Correlli. “We’ve got twenty minutes, remember? Don’t waste a second.”
Nettle dropped to one knee and hefted what appeared to be a small cannon on to her shoulder. Taking aim at Xavier’s mansion, she pressed the trigger. With a whoosh of compressed air, a spike came firing out of the cannon, a length of steel cord trailing out behind it. With a satisfying thunk the spike bit into the wall of the building, just above a balcony on the second floor. Nettle tied the other end of the cable tightly around the chimney stack behind them, creating a slender, sharply inclining tightrope between the two buildings.
Fray tested the cord, checking it was taut.
“Not bad,” she said, grudgingly. “I’ll go first.”
She attached a small device to the cable – a greased pulley that could slide along the cord – then slipped her hands through the leather loops that hung beneath it.
“See you down there,” said Fray, and with that she launched herself off the building.
Even though the Troupe had told him all about the death slide, Jonathan couldn’t help but be amazed by the sight of the acrobat swooping down along the cord and through the night, the graceful adjustments of her body belying the perilous nature of her descent. The slide took her over the perimeter wall and up towards the side of the Xavier mansion. At the last second, the brake mechanism on the cord kicked in, bringing her to a halt. Fray dropped down on to the balcony and gave them the thumbs up.
One by one the Troupe followed her down the death slide, until it was just Carnegie and Jonathan standing on the rooftop. Jonathan attached his own pulley to the cord, his hands trembling.
“You OK, boy?”
He nodded.
“Whatever you do, don’t let go.”
Jonathan laughed nervously. He put his hands through the leather loops and shuffled over to the edge of the building. It was a dizzying drop to the ground below. He thought of Mrs Elwood, of Raquella, of his mum. He looked at the Troupe waiting expectantly on the balcony. So many people were counting on him. This was no time to back out.
Jonathan took a deep breath and threw himself off the edge of the building.
Immediately his arm muscles locked as they took on the strain of his body weight. The pulley zipped effortlessly along the cord, sending him hurtling down towards Xavier’s mansion. He wanted to yell but the air had been buffeted from his lungs. At this height the wind was a living, breathing entity roaring in his ears. As he flew over the perimeter wall, Jonathan tucked his legs up beneath him, fearful of the large spikes straining to catch him. The loops were cutting into his hands but he had to hang on.
Looking on to the street, he saw Xavier’s guards swarming around the burning carcass of Verv’s car. The art of misdirection, Mountebank had called it. If any of the guards had turned their heads and looked up into the night, maybe they might have picked out Jonathan’s outline cutting through the sky. But none of them did.
Xavier’s mansion was looming larger and larger, swallowing Jonathan up in its shadow. Now he could make out the ornate columns and windows, the elegantly carved balustrades, the gargoyles glaring at him from beneath the eaves. Onward he went, picking up speed all the while, until it seemed he was going to fly straight into the wall. Instinctively he closed his eyes.
There was a twanging sound as the pulley encountered the brake near the end of the cord, bringing Jonathan to a halt so sudden that it jarred his arms in their sockets. Stifling a cry of pain, he dropped down on the balcony, where several pairs of hands received him, silently patting him on the back and ruffling his hair. As Carnegie flew down after him, Jonathan inspected his red-raw palms. Mountebank had crouched down by his side and was working at the window lock. By the time the wereman had joined them on the balcony, he had clicked it open.
The magician carefully opened the window and the Troupe slipped inside. They found themselves in a spacious living room shrouded in gloom. It was just possible to discern a jumble of silhouettes in front of them, a heap of objects cluttering up the floor and the surfaces. Correlli pulled out a pencil torch and shone a narrow beam over the surroundings. Jonathan was surprised to see that the room was filled with all manner of antiques: brooding statues, china plates, silver cutlery, slender vases decorated with willow patterns. There was a stack of paintings by his feet. He picked one of them up: judging by the frame alone, it was old, and valuable.
Correlli’s eyes widened beneath his balaclava. He let out a low whistle. “Look at all this stuff!”
Mountebank nodded. “Worth a small fortune,” the magician whispered back. “Actually, worth a rather large fortune.”
Carnegie ran a finger over a statue and held it up, showing a thick layer of dust on his black glove. “Doesn’t look like anyone comes up here often, though.”
Jonathan was confused. Why had Xavier bought all these items only to leave them out of sight? What was the point of buying something he didn’t care about?
Fray made a small sound of displeasure. Something was tangled up in her feet. She held up a fine white strand of material.
“There’s not just dust here,” she said. “This stuff’s everywhere – what is it?”
“Silk,” Correlli replied softly. “It seems Xavier likes to remind his visitors how he made his fortune.”
“Show-off,” muttered Nettle.
They crept out through the door and down a deserted hallway. Antiques and statues were strewn about the corridor like litter, all garlanded with silk strands that glistened in the dark and ran off into the corners of the passageway. At any second, Jonathan expected an alarm to sound and the lights to flick on, but there was no sign of life anywhere. The only sounds he could hear were Carnegie’s ragged breaths, the tread of Correlli’s shoes on the carpet, and his own thundering heart. Mountebank and the twins moved in complete silence.
Correlli led them on down the hallway, beyond the grand main staircase and towards a small door at the end of the corridor. He tried the handle and the door swung open, revealing the back staircase the fire-eater had singled out from the architectural plans. The Troupe descended down the wooden steps in single file, alert to the slightest squeak or footfall. The silence was so loud it hummed in Jonathan’s ears.
By the time they had reached the ground floor, Jonathan’s breaths were still coming in snatches, and his hands were still shaking, but he was feeling slightly calmer. He knew from the plans that the basement was just around the corner. They were close now.
There was a movement in the dark ahead of them.
“Guards – down!” bellowed Carnegie.
Immediately the twins backflipped into the doorway on their left, followed by a ducking and weaving wereman. Jonathan froze on the spot, but then Correlli – the professional burglar, his reflexes honed by years of experience – shoved him roughly in the back, and into a side room on the right. By the time the guards had levelled their weapons and begun firing, only one target was still exposed. Mountebank the Magnificent.
“No!” Jonathan screamed.
As the staccato report of gunfire filled the hall, Mountebank shuddered violently, small puffs of smoke rising from his body. The magician clutched at his chest, a bewildered expression on his face. He took one step, then another, before his legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor. A pool of blood trickled out from underneath him, staining the floorboards red.