by Steve Cole
‘We may as well be,’ said Anya with sudden bitterness. ‘Those men laughed because they think Elmhirst is crazy to send them after us. Because there is no way to stop this.’
‘Well,’ said James, giving her just the smallest of smiles, ‘we’ll just have to see about that.’
They waited tensely while the men pressed on towards the cavern and its locked doors. Ten minutes later, only Demir’s friend returned, gun drawn, playing his torch beam all about. He cast a fearful look at the mountain of explosives, but gave it a wide and sensible berth.
If we only had that choice! James thought.
Only when the man had moved well on did he feel able to breathe again. ‘He must think we doubled back through the tunnels.’
‘What of the other?’ Anya asked.
‘Demir? Perhaps he’s standing guard by the door.’ James felt his heart quicken. ‘If we can only overpower him, he might have the key—’
‘Come on, then.’ Anya was already extricating herself from the mesh and led the way along the tunnel. James followed, senses knife-sharp despite his fatigue as they neared the cavern.
There was no sign of Demir.
‘He must have gone through one of these doors.’ James muttered a prayer as he tried each in turn. But it was no good; they still stood stubbornly locked. ‘Back to your plan, then. We dismantle the trigger.’
Anya nodded slowly. ‘And hope Demir or his friend do not return.’
It was nerve-jangling work, unlocking the mesh surrounding the monumental pile of explosives and trying to remove the heavy crates as quietly as possible. Hours passed as they carried the boxes between them back the way they had come, hiding them in the submerged tunnel where James had almost drowned; the water, he hoped, would both hide their sabotage and render the hexogen useless. Every few feet they stopped to listen out for Elmhirst’s men in the tunnels, but Demir and his friend did not return. Although James checked them many times, the narrow oak doorways in the cavern, those tantalizing escape routes, remained locked.
By six o’clock, for all their careful labours, they’d disposed of only a dozen crates.
‘It is hopeless.’ Panting for breath, Anya lowered her end of the thirteenth crate, forcing James to put his down too. ‘Hopeless.’
He shook his head. ‘We must dump it in the water with the others. Come on, it’s just around the corner—’
‘What difference does it make?’ Anya wiped her forehead in the half-light. ‘We can never get enough of the explosives away to make any difference to the trigger.’
She was right, James knew. ‘All right. Let’s leave this one here. I’ll free another from the pile. Try the doors again, just in case.’
Anya limped away with no further comment. James walked with her as far as the trigger, then busied himself with liberating a further crate of hexogen while she went on to the cavern. Every thirty seconds he stopped work to listen for the sounds of approach. Before long he tensed as limping footsteps beat a swift tempo on the sticky clay.
‘It’s open!’ Anya’s face was triumphant in the dim glow of the torch as she ran back to join him. ‘Open!’
‘What?’ James felt the warmth of hope flare inside. ‘You mean—?’
‘The door opens. There is a stone staircase on the other side. The way has been lit!’
‘All right. All right.’ James tried to rein in his runaway thoughts. ‘For all we know, this could be a trap. Elmhirst can’t find us down here, and time’s getting short. But he knows where we want to go, where we’ll be making for, and so . . .’
‘His men leave the door open and wait for us up top?’ Anya’s face crumpled. ‘I had not thought of this.’
‘I’d better look into it. Alone.’
‘I am not a child to be protected!’
‘I know, and I’m not trying to patronize you.’ James took hold of her elbows. ‘If anything happens to me, you’ll still be free – and you’ll have to end this on your own. Wait here, out of sight. I’ll come back and fetch you if the way seems clear.’
She nodded, uncertain. ‘Be sure that you do.’
James followed the path of glazed fuse through the tunnel leading up to the cavern. The door that must lead to the transmitter tower was still closed, but that to the Opera House did indeed stand ajar. The staircase beyond was steep and rough-hewn, lit by candles flickering in small alcoves gouged from the rock.
Heart beginning to pound, James cautiously made his way upwards. It soon felt as if he’d been climbing for ever. The steps grew rougher, the nearer he got to the Opera House; perhaps the excavation work had risked raising attention from the staff and clientele.
Finally James reached a long ramp that led to another metal door. Bracing himself, he tried the handle. It was unlocked, and slid open, giving onto a dark space the size of a cupboard. A large, hulking contraption filled the space, which stank with the same smell as the submarine: diesel. An emergency generator, James presumed.
Cautiously he felt his way around it and located a further door in the wall opposite. This opened onto a much larger space given over to storage; props and scenery from past productions were held here for future reuse or cannibalization. I’m out! James thought with fleeting elation.
Now the hard work really begins.
James paused beside a pile of crates and tea chests filled with all sorts of strange paraphernalia. He started towards a door beside some scenery flats . . .
Just as Demir burst out of a crate behind him.
James jumped and turned at the noise – just in time to see a hunting knife flying his way. Desperately he threw himself aside and the knife whistled overhead to stick into a wooden backdrop with a hollow thump.
It’s a trap, all right, James thought, trembling. I took the bait and walked straight into an ambush.
Demir was already running for him. James scrambled up and tried to feint past the big man, but exhaustion made him slow and a heavy hand caught his face; he was sent reeling against one of the chests. Demir retrieved his knife from the scenery flat and now ran at James, wielding it viciously. James grabbed an oversized child’s wooden building block to use as a shield and thrust it into Demir’s face. Demir staggered backwards towards the door to the generator room. Just as he reached it, it burst open and slammed into the back of his head. He gasped and sank senseless to the floor – as Anya slipped into the props room, panting hard, out of breath.
‘Good timing.’ James crossed to take her in a tight embrace. ‘But I thought I was going to let you know the way was clear . . .’
‘Yes, you thought that. But I think together we are better, no?’ Anya extricated herself from his hold. ‘Be careful. I have brought evidence that will help us be believed.’
‘Evidence?’
‘You said it yourself, who would believe a story like ours with no proof?’ Anya opened her tunic to reveal a stick of hexogen explosive stuck down the waistband of her trousers. James recoiled automatically, feeling sick: it looked like a bullion bar made from modelling clay. ‘We show the police this,’ she went on, ‘and warn them how much waits below at the end of the secret stairs.’
‘Do you know how powerful that stick is?’ he whispered slowly.
‘When the police or SIS men see, they will listen.’
‘More likely shoot us on sight! Elmhirst might not know we’ve found the weak point in his precious tunnels, but he’ll have prepared for the possibility of our escape. He might even have circulated our descriptions among the staff . . .’ James gently took the hexogen and placed it inside the nearest crate of abandoned props. ‘I think we’d best keep this here, along with our other piece of evidence: Demir.’ He took a length of silk wrapped around a mannequin and used it to tie the man’s hands and feet. Then Anya helped him manhandle Demir into one of the crates.
‘So, then,’ Anya said. ‘Who can we bring here?’
‘It’ll have to be someone in authority who can act quickly and whose mind isn’t entirely shut,’ James said,
praying such a person could be found. He crossed to the far door to see where it led, but Anya’s hands lingered in the crate for a moment, then pulled out a long, full tutu made of white silk tulle. She looked at it, and couldn’t resist hugging it to her, nuzzling her face into its ruffles.
As he saw it, James frowned. ‘Wear it.’
She shook her head fiercely. ‘I cannot.’
‘Smelling like we do and dressed as we are, we’ll stand out a mile,’ James reasoned, ‘but if you look like you belong here, we’re less likely to be challenged.’
‘James, no. I have not worn such things since—’
‘Since your leg was broken, and your life with it?’ James shook his head impatiently. ‘Then it’s about time you did, isn’t it?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Pig.’
James came up close to her. ‘Anya, we’re running out of time and we’ve pushed our luck to the limit already. Any advantage – any – might make a difference. I’ll try and find something too.’ He looked at her pleadingly. ‘You’ll fit in. No one will look twice at you.’
She nodded, looked away, and James got a sudden sense that it was this that she feared most. Once, she’d been a prima ballerina in the making, and then . . . her dreams had been snatched away. He remembered the slashed ballet shoes hanging from the bed in her apartment in Moscow; then he remembered the gash carved into her papa’s throat, and thought of his own father and mother falling through space past sheer rock, until . . .
‘Put it on,’ James told her brusquely. ‘The past’s had too tight a hold on us both for too long. Tonight, we put things right.’
29
Countdown
I WAS WRONG, James thought as Anya emerged in a white leotard matched with a bell-shaped, calf-length ballet skirt. People will look twice. She’d found some ballet shoes, the ribbons crisscrossing her bruised and battered calves, vanishing into her netted silk tutu. For his part, while he’d decided to pass on the male tights, he’d found a white shirt and a leather jerkin to go with his muddy trousers and shoes. In one pocket he carried the Beretta, in the other, Karachan’s service pistol: the Browning.
He and Anya moved through the backstage warren of stores and passages of the Royal Opera House, passing stagehands and electricians and workmen and dressers in maid uniforms: black with white aprons. There was a buzz in the air. It was close to seven o’clock and the show must have been getting close to starting. The gala production might be based around children performing, but the care and attention to detail seemed equal to any professional production. How many hundreds – or thousands – would be packed into the auditorium tonight?
Anya looked nervous and uncomfortable as they passed young female ballet dancers mingling, stretching or exercising, together with male danseurs. ‘I came here once before,’ she said quietly, ‘on a tour of the Opera House with my classmates. I dreamed of dancing here one day.’
This used to be her world, James realized. Now she can only haunt it.
With a chill, he knew that La Velada must be somewhere close by, overseeing her show – and readying herself for the real main event: the catastrophes that would shake London to its hollowed-out core. This was her night, and if they stumbled into her path she would have them removed in moments, no matter what their protests. It would be the same if they accused Elmhirst, well-respected within SIS and entrusted with the King’s safety. What officer of the law would ever believe their wild accusations? Until the horror started, and it was far too late to stop it . . .
We’ll have to take matters into our own hands.
Just round the next corner James noticed a fire alarm on the wall. ‘Anya, if we set that thing off . . .’
‘The theatre will be evacuated, and the King with it. The Project will be spoiled.’ Anya’s smile faltered. ‘Only . . . Elmhirst will still be guarding him . . .’
‘I suppose so. But at least he won’t be able to deliver the King down into the tunnel like a tenth-rate Phantom of the Opera . . .’ James studied the alarm. It was a momentary contact switch where the glass panel held down the button: break the glass and you released the switch to set off the sirens.
Taking a deep breath, James sidled over to the alarm, discreetly raised his elbow and brought it down on the glass . . .
Nothing happened.
‘What is wrong?’ Anya asked. ‘Why are there no sirens?’
‘They’ve disconnected the circuit.’ James felt fatigue pull at his fading hopes. ‘Must have thought someone might try this.’
‘Then we shall try something else,’ Anya said, steering them away from the stage area.
She led him down a white-painted passageway, through a door onto a quiet classical staircase made of York stone. Then they tramped up several storeys into the highest reaches of the theatre. ‘The carpenters have their workshops up here,’ Anya explained as they walked, ‘built into bays in the iron roof. In the middle, above the rear of the stage, is the scene-painting room, yes?’
‘We can’t see through the ceiling,’ James pointed out, a little testily. ‘How will that help?’
‘The scenery does not fly down to the stage,’ Anya retorted. ‘There is a special goods lift that descends to the auditorium, and a smaller platform for the workmen. If we take it down just a little way . . .’
‘We’ll have a bird’s-eye view of the Opera House.’ James nodded approvingly. ‘Get a feel for the geography . . . and see how many SIS men on the lookout for trouble are standing between us and our doing something about all this.’
The scene-painting room was a large and lofty space, the lean-to roof studded with skylights. Long Acre and Bow Street shone in the streetlamps outside, steeped in grandeur, and the moon shone a spotlight down on James and Anya as they picked a path through scenery flats to a platform lift. James led the way aboard and pressed a button. With a sharp thunk, the lift began to descend towards the rear of the stage, but when he removed his finger, their movement stopped.
Anya lay down on her front, peering out through the crack between the ceiling and the top of the stage curtain.
James joined her and stared out over the main auditorium with its sea of people. A quick calculation told him there were over two thousand people seated here tonight, with more standing at the very back. So many Very Important People, as smart as their surroundings: rich deep-pile carpets of rosy pink, and crimson walls with Regency stripes. The seats were crimson too, and the curtains that hung from the proscenium arch before the stage . . . It was as if La Velada had chosen a location that would hide the blood she was ready to spill.
Cream and gold balconies in the shape of horseshoes rose from the stalls in four main tiers. Fine branched candle-holders with shades of deep pink pleated silk cast a gentle, bewitching light over the stage. In the orchestra pit, at least thirty musicians were tuning up, the first murmurings of their instruments rising up in a haze of dusty beauty. An ornate brass clockface on the wall was ticking off the surviving seconds till the first act began, and the hum of excitement was palpable.
James looked up at the magnificent Royal Box to the left of the stage, decorated sumptuously in white and gold, with marbled ornamental columns.
‘It has its own lobby, smoking basement and drawing room,’ Anya said quietly, ‘and a private entrance on Floral Street.’
‘I suppose a king isn’t allowed to queue with the hoi polloi,’ James said. With a tingle of excitement, he recognized George V in the box now, entertaining the Prime Minister and attendant diplomats and a uniformed policeman and—
Yes, there he was. Elmhirst, guarding the double doors that must lead to the anteroom beyond, hovering at the King’s back like the shadow of death. James shrank back, worried that he might be seen even from all the way over here. At the same time he was gripped by a fresh determination to act. This was his country, and this was his war. There has to be something I can do!
The hushed mumble of chatter died away as the lights dimmed and a susurration of applause rose in its
place as, with a sudden roll of drums and a swell of strings, the orchestra burst into the national anthem. The audience stood in respect and began to sing for their monarch – all save the security men in the auditorium, dressed in smart uniforms and looking around alertly for possible trouble.
‘God save the King,’ James muttered under his breath, ‘or let me have a go . . .’
The King stood graciously at the front of the box to receive the audience’s tribute and, as singing gave way to thunderous applause, he raised an arm in royal greeting. Then the lights dimmed, the curtains opened and the show began. A clutch of young dancers dressed as cygnets took to the stage, while the orchestra sent Tchaikovsky swooning from their instruments.
‘It is beautiful,’ Anya whispered, and there might have been tears in her eyes. ‘Is it not beautiful?’
‘For how much longer?’ James pressed the button that sent the platform lift juddering upwards. ‘Come on, we’ve got to do something.’ He led the way back into the scenery store. ‘We don’t know when the “trigger” will be pulled—’
‘’Ere. You two meant to be in here?’
James stopped still. A doorman – his rumpled, florid face in direct contrast to his impeccable dove-grey uniform – stood in the doorway. James caught a glimpse of the shoulder holster hidden under his jacket and realized that here was no ordinary member of the Royal Opera House staff.
‘Well?’ the man prompted them.
‘Are you with the police or SIS?’ James spoke with all the authority he could muster. ‘If you are, we need to speak with you. If not, we need to find someone who is.’
The man looked unimpressed. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Please, this building has to be evacuated right now. The King is in danger.’
Anya nodded. ‘There is a secret tunnel that leads to explosives . . .’