The King's Deception cm-8

by Steve Berry

  But he didn’t care about that.

  He wanted to be where things were happening.

  And that was Blackfriars station.

  He sat on one of the chairs inside the hotel room.

  “Are you hungry?” Miss Mary asked him.

  He nodded.

  “I can order you something.”

  She stepped across the room to the phone. Her sister sat at the desk with the laptop. He bolted for the door and fled into the hall. The stairs seemed the best route down, so he headed for the lighted sign.

  He heard the room door open and turned back.

  Miss Mary stared at him with a look of concern.

  He stopped and faced her.

  She didn’t have to say a word. The watery gloss in her eyes told him what she was thinking.

  That he should not go.

  But her eyes also made clear that she was powerless to stop him.

  “Be careful,” she said. “Be ever so careful.”

  * * *

  Gary followed Antrim onto the construction site. They wove a path through heavy equipment across the damp soil, dodging puddles from yesterday’s rain. A massive concrete shell lay inside one of the open trenches, twenty feet down, its damp walls being dried by the afternoon sun. Eventually, the entire structure would be covered with dirt. For now, though, its sides, roof, pipes, and cables were exposed, the rectangle stretching fifty yards toward the river, where it disappeared into the ground, beneath a section of closed-off street.

  They climbed down into the wet trench, using one of the wooden ladders, and made their way toward a yawn in the earth that opened into a darkened chasm. He blinked the sun from his eyes and adjusted to the dim light. Concrete wall rose to his left, bare earth to his right, the path well traveled, the dirt here dry and compact beneath his sneakers.

  Antrim stopped and signaled for quiet.

  He heard nothing save for the rumble of the nearby traffic.

  An opening in the wall could be seen ahead.

  Antrim approached, glanced inside, then motioned for him to follow. They entered and saw that the exposed structure housed a rail line, the tracks in disrepair, rebar everywhere awaiting wet cement. Incandescent floodlights burned bright, illuminating the windowless space. He wondered how Antrim knew where to go, but assumed the email earlier in the café had provided the necessary information.

  Antrim hopped up to another level from the dirt around the tracks and they crept deeper inside. The cool air smelled of wet mud and dry cement. More tripods with flood lamps lit the way. He estimated they were at least twenty feet underground, beneath the glass-fronted building overhead. They came to a wide-open space that funneled to shafts angling farther down into the ground.

  “This foyer is where passengers will come down from above, then make their way to the tracks,” Antrim whispered.

  Gary glanced into one of the down shafts. The next level was fifty feet beneath him. No steps or escalator were present. More lights burned below. Another wooden ladder, one of several propped in the shaft, allowed a way down.

  “That’s where we have to go,” Antrim said.

  * * *

  Kathleen followed Malone as they exited the underground station and found the Embankment. The dome of St. Paul’s rose not far in the distance, the Thames less than fifty meters to their right, Blackfriars station straight ahead. Both of them still carried their weapons. Malone had stayed silent after he explained what he wanted her to do. She hadn’t argued. This was a trap, no other way to view it. To walk in unprepared would be foolhardy.

  And even though Thomas Mathews held the superior position — since he seemed to know exactly where Blake Antrim would be — Malone had wisely demanded proof of Gary’s presence.

  So they’d been waiting.

  Malone’s phone vibrated, signaling an incoming email. He opened the message, which came with a video attachment.

  They watched on the screen as Blake Antrim and Gary walked through what appeared to be a construction site. They were inside a windowless space, Antrim easing himself onto a ladder, disappearing downward.

  Then Gary climbed onto the rungs and vanished.

  The message contained in the email was concise.

  PROOF ENOUGH?

  She saw the concern in Malone’s face. But she also saw the frustration, as there was no way to know where the video had originated.

  Best guess?

  Blackfriar’s station. About a kilometer away.

  They stood just outside the Inns of Court.

  Back where it all started yesterday.

  “Do what I asked,” Malone said.

  And he walked off.

  Fifty-eight

  Antrim hopped from the ladder and saw he was standing on what would eventually be a train platform, the tracks there, five feet below the concrete, exiting one tunnel then entering another. He noticed how lights indicated that the rails were active, signs warning to be wary of high voltage. The Circle and District lines ran straight through Blackfriars, two of London’s main east — west Underground routes. Millions traveled those lines every week. They could not be blocked. So the trains kept coming, back and forth, though none stopped here.

  Gary finished his descent and stood beside him.

  More lights on tripods illuminated the work area.

  Tile was being applied to the walls, a cheery color in a mosaic pattern. The entire platform was being refurbished, construction materials everywhere.

  “Mr. Antrim.”

  The gravelly voice startled him.

  He turned to see Sir Thomas Mathews standing fifty feet away, without his signature cane.

  The older man motioned.

  “This way.”

  * * *

  Malone entered the Inns of Court and replayed Thomas Mathews’ instructions in his mind. Beneath the ground on which he walked flowed the Fleet River. Its origin lay four miles to the north, once a major London water source. But by the Middle Ages a burgeoning populace had totally polluted the flow, its odor so horrendous that Victorian engineers finally enclosed it, making the Fleet the largest of the city’s subterranean rivers. He’d read about the maze of chambers and tunnels that crisscrossed Holborn, channeling the water to the Thames.

  “Go to the Inns,” Mathews said. “North of the Temple Church, adjacent to the master’s house, is the Goldsmith building. In its basement is access. It will be open and waiting for you.”

  “Then where?”

  “Follow the electrical cables.”

  He turned right and negotiated King’s Bench Walk. He entered the church court, filled with weekend visitors, and passed the Temple Round. He spotted the brick house labeled GOLDSMITH and entered through the main door, locking the latch behind him. A staircase was visible at the end of a short hall. He descended to a basement with walls of hewn stone. Two bare bulbs hung from the low ceiling. In the floor, across from the base of the stairs, an iron door was hinged open.

  He stepped over and glanced inside.

  A metal ladder led down ten feet to a dirt floor.

  The way to Gary.

  Or, at any rate, the only one he had.

  * * *

  Gary hopped off the concrete platform and followed the smartly dressed older man into a train tunnel. Lights attached to its concrete walls burned every fifty feet. He heard a rumble and felt a rush of air. The older man stopped and turned, motioning behind them.

  “These tracks are still active. Stay to the wall, but be careful. The electricity in the rails can kill.”

  He spotted a light out the tunnel’s exit, past the new station platform, into another tunnel entrance on the far side. Its brightness grew, as did the vibrations. A train suddenly appeared on the tracks, speeding toward them, passing in a roar, the cars full of people. They hugged the wall. In a few seconds it was gone, the rumble receding, the air still again. The older man resumed walking. Ahead, Gary spotted another man, waiting beside a metal door.

  They approached and stopp
ed.

  “The boy goes no farther,” the older man said.

  “He’s with me,” Antrim said.

  “Then you go no farther.”

  Antrim said nothing.

  “Your father is waiting for you at St. Paul’s Cathedral,” the older man said to Gary. “This gentleman will take you there.”

  “How do you know my dad?”

  “I’ve known him for many years. I told him I would deliver you to him.”

  “Go,” Antrim said.

  “But—”

  “Just do it,” Antrim said.

  He saw nothing in Antrim’s eyes that offered any comfort.

  “I’ll catch up with you in Copenhagen,” Antrim said. “We’ll have that talk with your dad then.”

  But something told him that was said only for the moment, and Antrim had no intention of ever coming.

  The other man approached and slid the backpack from Antrim’s shoulders, unzipping and displaying its contents to the older man, who said, “Percussion explosives. I would have expected no less from you. Were these used to breach the tomb of Henry VIII?”

  “And to kill three Daedalus operatives.”

  The older man cut a long stare at Antrim. “Then, by all means, bring them along. You may have need of them.”

  Antrim faced Gary. “Give me the remote.”

  The idea had been for Antrim to tote the explosives, with their detonators active and in place, while Gary kept the remote, the hope being that no one would search a boy for a weapon.

  But that had apparently changed.

  “I want to stay,” he said.

  “Not possible,” the older man said, motioning to the second man, who led Gary away.

  He yanked free of the man’s grasp.

  “I don’t need your help walking.”

  Antrim and the older man entered the metal door.

  “Where does that go?” Gary asked.

  But no answer was offered.

  * * *

  Ian was proud of himself. He’d managed to quickly steal a travel card and used the Underground to head across London to a station just east of Blackfriars. He’d avoided Temple station since that was where Malone and Richards would have exited, directly adjacent to the Inns of Court. Instead, he would approach Blackfriars from the opposite direction. On the trip over he’d thought about what to do once there, unsure, but at least he was not waiting around in some hotel room.

  He hated that he’d hurt Miss Mary. He’d seen the look on her face, knew that she did not want him to go. Maybe it was time he listened to her and trusted her judgment.

  He spotted the construction site, traffic hectic in both directions on a boulevard that fronted it on two sides. The dome of St. Paul’s rose off to his right. A plywood wall formed a makeshift barrier around the work site, but he managed to slip through an opening, past crabbed branches of bushes choked with trash. He saw no one, but kept among the equipment and debris, careful not to stay too long in the open.

  He stepped into the main building and crept deeper inside, grit crunching beneath his shoes.

  He heard voices.

  Scaffolding rose to his right, a stack of crates and boxes nearby.

  He dashed over and sought cover behind them.

  * * *

  Kathleen entered the Blackfriars construction site from the west, making her way toward the new station building. She carried her gun, out and ready. Malone had not wanted her with him. Mathews had made clear that he was to come alone. Instead, he’d told her to check out the site and be prepared. Mathews had said that Antrim was headed below Blackfriars station, and the video they’d watched confirmed that Antrim and Gary Malone were at a construction locale. It stood to reason that this was the place, so Malone wanted it reconnoitered. After that, he’d told her, improvise.

  She proceeded with caution and entered, finding her way through a series of platforms and corridors. Tripod lights were on, and she doubted they’d been left burning all weekend. From everything she’d read about this project it was a seven-day-a-week venture, time being of the essence. So where were the workers? SIS had surely taken care of them for the day.

  Inside the new station building she spotted something familiar.

  From the video.

  She stared down an opening in the floor to another level, where Underground tracks ran. Ladders allowed access, just like the one she and Malone had seen.

  Then a noise.

  To her right.

  On her level.

  She headed toward it.

  * * *

  Ian spied Gary Malone being led by another man. Tall. Young. A copper, no doubt.

  “I don’t want to leave,” Gary said.

  “This is not up to you. Keep moving.”

  “You’re lying to me. My dad’s not at St. Paul’s.”

  “He is. Let’s go.”

  Gary stopped and faced his minder. “I’m going back.”

  The man reached beneath his jacket, produced a gun, and pointed the barrel straight at Gary. “Keep. Moving.”

  “You’re going to shoot me?”

  Gutsy. He’d give Gary that. But he wasn’t as sure of the answer to that question as Gary seemed to be.

  His mind raced.

  What to do?

  Then it came to him. Just like a month ago in that car. With Mathews and the other man who’d wanted to kill him. He’d left the plastic bag with his treasures at Miss Mary’s bookstore, but he’d removed the knife and pepper spray.

  Both were in his pockets.

  He smiled.

  Worked once.

  Why not again.

  * * *

  Gary stood his ground and dared the guy to pull the trigger. The extent of his courage surprised him, but he was more concerned about his dad than himself.

  And Antrim, who’d brushed him off.

  Which hurt.

  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Ian walking toward them.

  What in the world was he doing here?

  The man with the gun saw him, too. “This is a restricted site.”

  “I take a wander in here all the time,” Ian said, still approaching.

  The man seemed to realize that he was holding an exposed gun and lowered it. Which only confirmed that there would not be any shooting.

  “You a copper?” Ian asked.

  “That’s right. And you can’t be here.”

  Ian came close and stopped. His right hand whipped upward and Gary heard the hiss of spray. The man with the gun howled, both hands searching for his eyes. Ian swung his foot up and slammed the sole of his shoe into the man’s stomach, dropping him to the concrete.

  Both boys ran.

  “I heard what he told you,” Ian said. “Your dad is not at St. Paul’s. He’s here.”

  Fifty-nine

  Antrim crouched low as they negotiated the narrow passage. Power cables were bolted near the barrel ceiling, lights inside wire cages every seventy-five feet or so, their glow nearly blinding.

  “We discovered these tunnels,” Mathews said, “when Blackfriars station was first rebuilt in the 1970s. A convenient entrance to them was incorporated into the new station and kept under our control. We ran power into here, and you are about to learn why.”

  Mathews was shorter and did not need to watch his head. The older man just clipped along, the dirt floor dry as a desert.

  “I thought you might like to see what it is you were after,” Mathews said. “After all, you did go to much trouble to find it.”

  “It’s real?”

  “Oh, my goodness, Mr. Antrim. It is most real.”

  “Who built these tunnels?”

  “We think the Normans first dug them as escape routes. Then the Templars refined them, adding the brick walls. We are not far from the Inns of Court, their former headquarters, so I assume these paths served a great many of the knights’ purposes.”

  He heard a rumble, growing in intensity, and wondered if it was anothe
r train passing through its own tunnel nearby.

  “The River Fleet,” Mathews said. “Just ahead.”

  They came to an open doorway at the end, where the tunnel crossed perpendicularly another man-made expanse, this one tall, wide, and channeling water. They stood on an iron bridge that spanned ten feet above the flow.

  “This bridge was added after the discovery of the tunnel we just traversed,” Mathews said. “When the Fleet was enclosed centuries ago, the route was unknowingly blocked. It is low tide at the moment, but that will soon be changing. At high tide, the water will rise to nearly where we stand.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t want to be down there when that happens.”

  “No, Mr. Antrim, you most certainly would not.”

  * * *

  Malone kept following the tunnel, the water now up to his calves and rising at a steady pace. The entry point from the Goldsmith house had led to this wide passage, maybe twenty feet across and fifteen feet high, the brick walls mortared tightly, their surface smooth as glass. He was surely standing in the Fleet River. Its pollution was long gone, the water cold, but the turgid air carried a rank odor. He’d once read a book about London’s many underground rivers — names like Westbourne, Walbrook, Effra, Falcon, Peck, Neckinger — the Fleet and the Tyburn the most prominent. About a hundred miles of subterranean flow, he recalled, the city balanced atop them like a body on a water bed. In the ceiling high above ventilation shafts periodically pierced the brick arch, leading to metal grates that allowed in light and air. He’d seen some of those grates on the streets. Now here he was underground, inside an impressive Victorian creation, the Fleet River washing past him at an impressive pace. His normal discomfort at being enclosed was eased by the wide space and tall ceilings. Also, Gary was here. Somewhere.

  And that meant he had to keep going.

  Mathews had told him to follow the power cables. The one that had snaked a path from his entry point at the Inns of Court was affixed above him, past any high-water mark, disappearing ahead into the semidarkness. The gun was still nestled to his spine, beneath his jacket. He was being led. No doubt. But not for the first time. His job with the Magellan Billet had been to take these kinds of risks. He knew what he was doing. What he didn’t know was what had happened between Antrim and Gary. Had he laid a hand on the boy? Hurt him in any way? At a minimum a stranger had entered their family and come between him and his son. Worse, this stranger was not to be trusted, paid millions of dollars to sell out his country. Were the deaths of the two American agents on Antrim’s shoulders? Damn right. And now this traitor had Gary within his clutches.