“Skellsgard—I don’t know if you can hear me now, but I’m going to start controlled constriction of the throat in about fifteen seconds.”
The microphone crackled in reply, but it was nothing Auger could understand. It made no difference now, in any case. The die was cast.
She descended the spiral staircase to the lower console, checked her watch and began to drop the stabilising power as Skellsgard had instructed her. When she had notched it down sufficiently, the klaxons, strobes and recorded warnings turned themselves off, leaving her with only the warm hum of the surrounding machinery. The amber sparks and filaments had quietened themselves. She returned to the higher level and peered down the injection shaft, but there was no sign of the departed ship. Instead, the cradle was returning to the recovery bubble, while a circular sweeper mechanism was clearing the tube of any lingering debris from the mangled guidance arms.
“Skellsgard? Maurya?” she said into the microphone.
But there was no answer.
Auger checked her watch and counted ahead sixty hours. Someone might route a signal down the link once Skellsgard was home, but in all likelihood Auger would not know whether she had been successful until a new ship dropped into the bubble.
She did not want to be in Berlin when that happened.
Auger’s third passage through the censor was as uneventful as the first two. She shivered and picked herself up, then set about gathering the things she would need for the rest of her mission. She found a torch that worked, then stuffed clean clothes and bundles of local currency into a red suitcase. She had retrieved the automatic from Skellsgard and found a fresh clip of ammunition on one of the storage racks in the censor chamber. Now the automatic nestled in her handbag, next to the war-baby weapon. It was good to feel armed as she started the slow and filthy walk back to the station. After ten minutes she had reached the Métro tunnel, the torch picking out the lethal gleam of the electrified rails.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She had forgotten all about the electricity.
With Aveling and the others gone, there was no one to short-circuit the supply while she got clear of the tunnel. It would be nearly a dozen hours before the trains stopped running for the night, and then she would have the additional problem of escaping from a locked Métro station. If she couldn’t get out until the station was opened again the next morning—assuming no one arrested her for suspicious behaviour in the meantime—she would have wasted almost a day’s worth of the sixty hours available before the ship returned. She could probably find a way to short-circuit the track, but not to restore the power once she was free of the tunnel. And if it wasn’t restored, there would be too much danger of Métro engineers poking around in the tunnel, with the risk of them finding the entrance to the tunnel leading to the portal.
Auger waited in the sanctuary of the secondary tunnel until a train passed by. The brightly lit carriages slammed past only inches from her face, Auger squinting against the warm slap of disturbed air. Another train roared through a couple of minutes later, its compartments empty except for a few commuters. The midday rush was over now, but the trains continued to run on the same schedule. She cursed the Métro system for its mindless dedication to efficiency.
There was no alternative: she would just have to make a run for it. She guessed that she would have a minute and a half to reach Cardinal Lemoine, two if she was lucky, and could only hope that she would not trip or find herself caught in the tunnel if a train arrived sooner than expected.
Just get it over with, Auger told herself.
She would make a dash for it as soon as the next train had passed through. She readied herself, anxious not to waste a second. But after a minute no train came, and then another minute passed, and then another. She waited in the tunnel for five minutes until she heard the approach of another train as it squealed and clattered towards her. In that five-minute interval she could easily have reached safety, but the next two trains arrived in rapid succession, almost nose to tail.
She would just have to take her chances.
Even as the red lights of the most recent train were disappearing into the tunnel, she was on her way.
She kept her back to the wall, her coat snagging on the tangled pipes and electrical conduits that ran along the tunnel. She held the suitcase as high as her strength allowed, trailing it behind her. It thumped and scraped against the wall as she moved. She had not tripped before, she told herself, and she had managed to make the distance in the time Aveling had given her. Nothing had changed, except that the punishment for even the slightest slip would be rather more severe. She could not afford to make a single mistake; one misplaced footstep and it was all over.
How long had it been now?
Down the tunnel, just around a shallow curve, she could make out the cold glow of Cardinal Lemoine station. It still seemed very far away, further than she could possibly cover in the minute or so that must be remaining. Auger panicked. Had she got turned around somehow? Was she in fact heading deeper into the tunnel, lured by the impossibly distant light of the next station down the line? The panic brought a lump to her throat and an appalling desire to turn around and head in the other direction.
No, she ordered herself sternly, just keep moving. The passing trains had confirmed that she was moving in the right direction. And even if this was the wrong direction, she was committed now. She had no better chance of making it to safety in the other direction than if she continued to press on the way she was going. And as she edged closer to the light, placing each foot with tense deliberation, she began to feel as if she was making slow but steady progress. The light was now much brighter, glancing off the courses of enamel tiles lining the mouth of the tunnel. She could make out people standing on the platform, none of whom had noticed her yet. The suitcase bumped against the wall behind her, dislodging a loose chip of tunnel cladding.
Then the people began to move, drifting to the edge of the platform as if by a collective decision. Almost as soon as she had noticed this, the brilliant headlights of a train hove into view. It came to a stop at the platform, paused for what seemed only a handful of seconds and then began moving in her direction.
She wasn’t going to make it.
As the train entered her stretch of tunnel, arcs danced between the electrified rails and the undercarriage of the train. The arcs were a cruel violet-blue, the colour of the wormhole mouth she had glimpsed earlier. The train lurched and swayed as it approached, seeming to fill the entire width of the tunnel. Auger wished she had paid more attention on the way in, checking the wall for nooks and crannies in which she might have taken shelter. Now all she could do was stand still and press herself against the wall as hard possible. Pipes and conduits dug into her spine like the torments of some apparatus of medieval justice. She pressed harder, trying to become part of the fabric of the wall, willing herself to melt into it like some camouflaged reptile. The train roared closer, rats scampering and garbage fluttering away in the air draught pushed before it. Surely, she thought, the driver must see her now. But the train kept coming, its steely roar filling her universe like a proclamation.
Auger closed her eyes. No sense in keeping them open until the last moment. The roar reached a crescendo, oil and dust hitting her lungs. She felt a violent jolt run through her left arm, as if the train had wrenched it from her shoulder. The roar continued, and then began to abate. Reverberations chased the train along the tunnel, and then all was quiet again.
Auger opened her eyes and dared to breathe. She was all right. Her arm was still attached, and it didn’t even feel dislocated. But the suitcase was lying half-open a dozen paces further back down the tunnel. The clean clothes she had packed for herself were draped over the nearest pair of rails, already crusted with filth. Two packets of counterfeit money lay between the tracks, while a third had ended up much further along the tunnel, at the limit of her torch’s beam.
Auger grabbed the nearest bundle of money, but some
instinct told her to abandon everything else and get out of the tunnel as quickly as possible. She doubted the money would be there when she returned to the portal, but there was plenty more where it had come from. Someone—most probably a poorly paid Métro engineer—would be enjoying a generous bonus.
She reached the end of the tunnel just as the next train was slowing into Cardinal Lemoine. She lingered in the darkness until the train came to a stop and the passengers on the platform began to jostle for the best positions around the sliding doors. The driver picked up a newspaper from the top of his control panel and turned idly to the back page, taking a pencil from behind his ear to scribble something down.
Auger used his moment of inattention to spring up on to the platform. Most of the disembarking passengers had already left the train and and were spilling in ragged lines towards the exit. If she could only mingle with them, she thought she had a good chance of reaching daylight without anyone noticing that she had not in fact come off the train. But there was a wide expanse of open platform to cross before she reached the small crowd, and there were at least four seated bystanders she would have to pass by unnoticed.
The doors hissed shut and the train started moving. Auger walked as nonchalantly as she could along the platform, fixated on reaching the safety of the scurrying crowd. Once she was above ground she would be safe: just another woman fallen on hard times, someone to be actively ignored.
“Mademoiselle. This way please.” The Frenchman’s voice was calm but authoritative.
She looked around for the source and saw one of the seated individuals rising and moving towards her with a determined look in his eyes. He had been reading a newspaper but had left it on the bench, now revealing himself to be wearing the dark-blue uniform of a Métro official. He was jamming his hat on as he spoke.
“I’m sorry?” Auger replied, answering him in French.
“Mademoiselle, you must come with me. I am afraid we must ask some questions of you.”
“I don’t understand. What have I done?”
“That is to be determined.” He pointed to a nearby door marked with a “no entry” sign. “If you would step into our office, please. It would be best for all concerned if you do not make a scene.”
She did not move. The official was a short middle-aged man with a greying moustache and a pink nose marked by complex tributaries of broken veins. He most definitely did not want a scene, Auger thought.
“I still don’t quite—”
“We had reports of a young woman entering the tunnel an hour or two ago,” he said in a low voice. “We were inclined to dismiss them, but there were at least two witnesses. As a matter of precaution, I decided to keep watch on the tunnel myself in case anyone emerged.”
“But you didn’t see anyone emerge,” Auger insisted. “Not me, certainly. I just got off that train.”
“I know what I saw.”
“Then you must be mistaken.”
He shifted uncomfortably, doubtless wondering if he should use force to persuade her into the room, or call for assistance from another official. “Please, do not make this difficult for me,” he said. “We have every right to call in the police. If there is a simple explanation, however, that may not be necessary.”
“Is there a problem here?” asked another voice, differently accented.
Auger looked around. Another passenger was walking towards them, hands in the pockets of his long, grey raincoat. He wore a fedora with the brim tipped low over his face, but she recognised him immediately.
“Wendell,” she said.
“What’s going on, Verity?”
She had no idea what was going on, but Floyd seemed to expect her to fall into a role, one for which only he had seen the script. Stumbling over her words, she said, “I’m not sure, Floyd, but this man wants to take me into that room and ask me some questions.”
Floyd examined the man with a look of patient concern. “Why on Earth would you want to do that?”
“Do you know this woman, sir?”
“Know her? I should think so. She’s my wife.”
“Then perhaps you could kindly explain what she was doing crawling around in the tunnel.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Floyd said. He took off his hat, smoothing down his hair.
The man scratched his veined bulb of a nose. “I know what I saw. Perhaps it would be best for us to continue this discussion in my office.”
“As you wish,” Floyd said, “but I assure you that you’re making a very serious mistake.”
Auger sighed. “Come on, Wendell. Let’s get this over with, and then perhaps this silly little man will leave us alone.”
The man let them walk ahead of him, then used a key on a chain to unlock the faded green door into a bare, spartan private office. A single unshaded bulb hung from the ceiling like the lure of an angler fish.
“Sit here,” the man said, indicating a warped wooden table and a couple of pull-up chairs that had seen better days.
“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” Floyd said. “Now, let me explain. Thirty minutes ago, I received a telephone call from my wife. She works in a haberdasher’s on Gay-Lussac. All sorts of people visit the shop and occasionally the staff let customers use the upstairs washroom. Unfortunately, someone left the tap running. Why don’t you tell him the rest, Verity?”
“The sink overflowed,” Auger said, watching for the minutest nod of encouragement from Floyd. “The water built up and made the ceiling cave in. Everyone working below was either drenched or covered in dust and debris from the collapsing floor—that’s why I look like this. All our stock was ruined. I called my husband and told him we were all being sent home early from work, and he came to the station to meet me—I don’t want to wander the streets alone in this state.”
“Neither of you is French,” the man said, as if imparting grave news.
“There’s no law against it,” Floyd replied. “Anyway, you’re welcome to look at my identification papers.” He showed the man his identity card and one of the false business cards he kept handy for occasions just like this. “As you can see, my work as a literary translator means I spend most of the day in my own home. Go on, Verity—show the good man your papers as well.”
“Here,” she said, holding them out after rummaging in her handbag.
He looked at her documents, which were grubby with her fingerprints. “Verity Auger,” he read. “I shall remember that name. I shall also remember that neither of you is wearing a wedding ring.”
Beyond the closed door, another train arrived in the station. Auger was tempted to make a dash for it, but she feared that the official would be able to stop the train from departing. “Look,” she said, “I’m telling the truth, and so is my husband. What business would I have crawling around in a railway tunnel? It was bad enough taking the train looking like this, with everyone staring at me as if I was some kind of tramp.”
“I assure you, everything’s above board,” Floyd said, smiling winningly.
“As my wife says, she’d hardly be likely to crawl around in a Métro tunnel.”
“Someone was crawling around in it,” the man insisted.
“That may be the case,” Floyd said, his tone conciliatory, “but surely you can’t suspect every woman who steps off a train with a bit of dust on their clothes.”
“I saw her…” the man began, but his voice lacked conviction. “I saw someone come out of that tunnel.”
“And in the rush of passengers coming and going you must have lost track of the right person and ended up confusing them with my wife.” Floyd sounded very understanding. “Look, I don’t want to make things difficult for you, but my wife really needs to be getting home where she can have a hot shower and change her clothes.” He took Auger’s hand. His fingers were rough, but gentle. “Don’t you, dear?”
“I’m worried about whether there’ll be a job for me to go back to tomorrow,” Auger said. “The damage to the stock looked very bad
.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Floyd returned his attention to the official. “Here. You’ve been very understanding. Will you accept this as a token of my thanks?” He had taken a ten-franc note from inside his coat, folded it discreetly in two and slipped it into the man’s top pocket, almost without blinking.
“Your thanks? For what? I’ve done nothing.”
“My wife is still a bit embarrassed about her appearance,” Floyd said, lowering his voice as if the two men were sharing a confidence. “She’d be grateful if you’d let us leave the station by the staff exit.”
“I couldn’t possibly…”
Floyd slipped the man another ten-franc note. “It’s highly irregular, I know, but we really would appreciate it. Treat yourself to a drink on me.”
The man pursed his lips, weighing possibilities. He reached a conclusion very quickly. “Stock damage, did you say?”
“We’d just moved everything in from the warehouse,” Auger said.
“I hope very much that your job will be safe, madame.” He opened the wooden door and ushered them back out on to the platform. “This way,” he said, leading them in the opposite direction from the public exit.
“You’re a very good man,” Floyd said. “I won’t forget you in a hurry.”
“You can be sure that I won’t forget you in a hurry either, Monsieur Floyd.”
NINETEEN
It was still raining when they reached street level, but it was the last dregs of mid-afternoon drizzle, and the grey blanket of the sky was punctured by odd-shaped splashes of pastel blue. After all that happened underground, the mundane continuation of city life—the constant welter of pedestrians and vehicles—felt to Auger like a peculiar kind of insult. She waited until the official had returned to his subterranean world, locking a gate behind him, before speaking to Floyd.
“I don’t know where to begin,” she said, addressing him in English now.
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