On Her Majesty's Behalf

by Joseph Nassise

  Determination replaced despair, and he physically shook himself as if shaking off the negative thought, standing straighter and refusing to be beaten down by recent events. He hadn’t lived this long by giving in to his negative emotions, no matter how bad the situation.

  Buck up, Burke.

  The whispered command to hold up came back down the line, and he decided it was time to stop letting the others carry him along and to do the job he was here to do. He pushed his way to the front of the group where it was immediately clear why they had stopped. A ladder came down from above right in the middle of the tunnel, the first one they’d seen since entering the tunnels. Drummond was standing beneath it, looking up at the faint light coming in from around the manhole cover above.

  “What have we got, Sergeant?” Burke asked, stepping up into the light next to the other man.

  Drummond seemed relieved to see him.

  Was I that out of it? Burke wondered.

  “Ladder to street level, sir. With your permission, I’ll check it out.”

  Burke nodded and then watched as the brawny British sergeant practically swarmed up the ladder. He doesn’t like it down here any more than I do.

  There was a grinding sound from above as Drummond slipped the steel manhole cover to one side and peered out into the street. A few moments passed and then Drummond slid back down the ladder to join them.

  “Looks clear. No sign of the enemy, human or otherwise.”

  “Any idea of where we are?”

  Drummond shrugged. “Somewhere near Grosvenor Square, I think. Maybe New Bond Street. I’ve been trying to keep us traveling in one direction as best as I can, but the tunnels have switched back and forth a few times so I’m not positive. We’ve come a fair distance from the museum, at least.”

  That was good enough for Burke. He didn’t know London’s geography well enough for the location to mean much to him, he just wanted to be certain they wouldn’t turn the corner and run into Moore’s unit again. They needed some breathing room to deal with their injuries and take stock of how things stood.

  He sent Drummond back up the ladder to provide security for the rest of them as they cautiously climbed up the ladder one by one and into the street above. When they were all clear, Burke slipped the manhole cover back into place and then took a look around.

  The street was lined with a variety of shops. From where Burke stood he could see several clothing stores, both men’s and women’s, a stationery store, an antiques store, and even a butcher’s shop. The doors and windows on all the buildings were intact, indicating that the area hadn’t been hit hard in the recent bombing attacks. It could have been an ordinary day in London, if it weren’t for the bodies lying rotting in the street, evidence that the shredders had come through at some earlier point.

  A heavy stench wafted over him, and it took Burke a moment to realize it wasn’t the corpses but himself and his companions that smelled so bad. All of them were splattered here and there with the muck of the sewers from which they’d just emerged, and it was going to take more water than they were currently carrying for them to get clean.

  Look at the bright side, Burke told himself. There’s no way the hounds are going to be able to track you now.

  With the sun disappearing below the horizon, Burke thought it prudent that they find a place to hole up and wait out the night in some semblance of safety rather than stumbling about in the dark risking discovery by shredders and German special ops troops alike. Luckily, it didn’t take them long to find someplace suitable.

  The bank had been serving the financial needs of British customers since 1822, according to the plaque outside the front door. Burke didn’t care about that. He was far more interested in the steel gates that had been pulled down over the windows and across the main entrance. The gate protecting the front door was locked, but they could take care of that easily enough.

  “Williams, front and center.”

  When the corporal limped over and joined him, Burke pointed at the gate. “Can you get us in here?”

  “Does a pig smack its lips?” came the young man’s reply.

  Being a city boy himself, Burke had no idea what pigs did or didn’t do, but given that Williams was pulling out his tool kit and having a go at the lock he took the other man’s answer in the affirmative.

  It took Williams less than three minutes.

  Inside, the marble floor, mahogany desks, and hand-­painted murals on the ceilings spoke to the wealth of the customers who regularly banked there, but the small group barely noticed. They were exhausted from the day’s events and simply wanted a place to lie easy for the night. They quickly checked the main lobby and nearby offices to be certain they were free of shredders.

  The restrooms still had running water and a nearby closet held weeks’ worth of cleaning supplies, so they took turns cleaning the grime from their boots and clothing as best they could. By the time they were finished their uniforms were a bit damp, but at least they didn’t smell so strongly of sewage.

  Rations were divided up among them so that everyone had something to eat and canteens were filled at the restroom sinks. Burke posted a sentry at the door and then suggested that the rest of them find space on the floor in front of the long counter of teller windows to try and relax.

  He was just settling down himself, intending to take a look at the mangled remains of his hand, when he heard Jones give out a whoop of excitement and saw him emerge from the bank president’s office, a slip of paper in his hand.

  What now? Burke wondered.

  Smiling, Jones waved the paper in his direction but didn’t stop his motion across the room toward the massive steel door that governed access to the bank’s vault.

  Uh, oh.

  Burke hurriedly rose. “What are you doing, Jones?”

  Ignoring him, the other man glanced at the paper in his hand and then began spinning the small combination dial to the left of the captain’s wheel on the vault door.

  Visions of being court-­martialed for robbing a British bank swam through Burke’s thoughts as he hurriedly crossed the room to the other man’s side.

  “I said, what the hell are you doing, Jones?”

  The corporal stepped over to the captain’s wheel and grabbed the handles. “Found the combination to the vault in the bank president’s office. Guy had it taped to the inside of his desk drawer.”

  Burke scoffed. “There’s no way the bank’s president would do something so stupid,” he said. “It’s probably just a decoy.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Major,” Jones said, even as he spun the massive flywheel to the right. There was a brief whir as the tumblers moved inside the lock mechanism, followed by a very loud click.

  Jones hauled back on the handle and the vault door swung open on well-­oiled hinges.

  The corporal grinned, then stepped inside.

  Burke followed.

  The walls of the vault were lined with safe deposit boxes, most of which were locked shut. Those few that were open looked like they’d had their contents removed in a hurry, making Burke think they might have been the personal boxes of individuals who worked right there at the bank. Who else would have had time to get to their valuables after the German attack?

  “Not the fortune you were looking for?” Burke asked, upon seeing the expression of disgust on Jones’s face after he poked his nose into a few of the open boxes.

  “Only a fool ignores the sound of opportunity knocking.”

  “No, only a fool would consider this an opportunity,” Burke quipped back at him. “You’re in the middle of a war zone, Jones. Do you really want to weigh yourself down with stacks of pound notes?”

  This time, Jones’s expression made Burke laugh aloud. It was clear the other man hadn’t thought much beyond the “get into the vault” part of his plan. A criminal mastermind he was not.
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br />   Jones might not be happy with how things turned out, but now that he was inside it, Burke thought the vault could be useful. It was large enough to give them all room to stretch out for the night and could even be opened from the inside, but with only one way in and out it wasn’t perfect. Still, it would keep them out of sight of any casual passersby on the street outside, human or otherwise, and would prove an effective bunker as a last resort in the event they were overrun and had to wait it out.

  Leaving the sentry at the door, Burke rounded up the rest of his group and moved them into the vault where most of them found space to stretch out and then tried to get some sleep.

  Burke settled down just inside the vault’s entrance, his back to the wall and his gun nearby. The position gave him a clear line of sight to the sentry by the bank’s entrance and let him make use of the last of the lingering sunlight coming in through the bank’s windows to examine his injured hand.

  Thankfully, the damage wasn’t as extensive as he’d first assumed. The last two fingers had been torn completely away and would need to be replaced. His thumb, index, and middle fingers were all still fully operational, however, which would allow him to continue using the hand for most tasks, especially since the mechanism that allowed him to lock his fingers closed was still functioning.

  “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  Burke looked up to find Veronica standing over him, her expression impossible to see in the fading light.

  “Sorry?”

  “Back at the museum. You knew the . . . man leading the German patrol?”

  Her hesitation over the word man had been slight, but Burke caught it just the same. He didn’t blame her; he didn’t know what to call Charlie at this point either.

  “Yeah, I knew him.”

  She bent to sit down, and he automatically scooted over to give her some room. She settled in beside him, her shoulder all but touching his own. He was very aware of her closeness.

  He gave a frustrated shrug. “Until a few weeks ago, he was my platoon sergeant.”

  “What happened?”

  Burke explained their earlier mission and how Sergeant Moore had volunteered to lead the German pursuit away from them so that the rest of them could escape.

  “Sounds like he was a good man.”

  “He was,” Burke acknowledged and was thankful when Veronica didn’t comment on the hitch in his throat as he said it.

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  “Perhaps the process can be reversed,” she suggested tentatively, giving voice to something that Burke had been thinking but had not yet found the courage to say aloud. “The research we’d been doing at the Round Table prior to the attack had been very encouraging.”

  “Perhaps,” Burke agreed, while privately thinking the chances were pretty minimal. They’d have to capture him and transport him back to the professor’s lab in France to even attempt such a thing, and even then there were no guarantees they’d be successful. One wrong calculation and they could end Charlie’s life rather than restore it. Then again, would that be so bad?

  The ethics of the entire situation was maddening.

  Burke needed to get his mind off Charlie and so he asked, “Tell me about these Gardens we’re going to in the morning.”

  “Kensington? What do you want to know?”

  Burke shrugged. “Anything. Everything. It’s hard to say what will prove to be important. Start with the layout of the land and we’ll go from there.”

  He sensed more than saw her nod, the sun all but set at this point, shrouding them in deep shadow.

  “All right. Kensington is one of eight royal parks in the city limits . . .”

  Chapter Thirty

  Kensington Gardens

  London

  THEY LEFT THE safety of the bank behind just as dawn’s first light was breaking over the ruined city. There had been no sign of Sergeant Moore or any of the other members of the German commando unit during the night, but that didn’t stop Burke from ordering his men to take the bottles of bleach they’d found in the bank’s storeroom and pour them all over the roadway leading up to the bank’s entrance. The stench of the ammonia would hopefully give them a larger head start than without. Not knowing how far the Germans were behind him made Burke anxious in more ways than one. It was bad enough expecting to find a band of shredders around every corner; having to worry about some German commando putting a bullet in the back of his head when he wasn’t looking made things much worse.

  There was the Queen’s safety to worry about as well.

  He looked in her direction, caught her adjusting the straps crisscrossing her chest that held the matched set of Webley revolvers she carried, and found himself captured anew by the combination of beauty, grace, and grit that this woman personified. Most of the women he knew, who admittedly were few and far between since the war began, would have been reduced to crying in the corner when those around them started turning into zombies, but not Veronica. She’d not only taken charge but had met the threat head-­on and was still doing so even now. They wouldn’t have gotten out of the museum if it hadn’t been for her quick thinking.

  He was anxious to turn her over to the pilot of the incoming aircraft, whoever that might be, but at the same time he realized that the thought of leaving her side was strangely upsetting. He hadn’t felt attracted to a woman since Mae’s death and to feel so now, in the midst of all this, was rather surreal and just too much for him to think about.

  Never mind the fact that she’s the bloody Queen of England!

  Burke tore his gaze away from her hands and looked up to find her watching him in turn. She raised one eyebrow questioningly and he blushed, realizing that he’d been staring. He shook his head and waved his hand in an “it’s nothing” gesture before turning away lest he embarrass himself further.

  His thoughts, however, kept returning to the way those straps emphasized her womanly curves . . .

  To get his mind off Veronica, Burke considered what he knew about their destination. Kensington Gardens was one of several royal parks scattered about the city. This particular one was home to Kensington Palace, the birthplace of both Queen Victoria and her second cousin, Queen Mary, who was Veronica’s mother. Burke knew that Veronica had spent plenty of time there while growing up; she’d been the one to tell him all this last night. She’d also described the park to him; 275 acres of woodlands, meadows, and riverfront views, all connected by a series of paved paths and gated entrances. It seemed an unlikely place to land an aircraft, but he’d been assured that there was a wide swatch of land in the middle of the park that would do the trick.

  Guess we’ll find out soon enough, he thought.

  They reached the eastern edge of the park without difficulty, but rather than enter at that point they followed Park Lane south until it bisected Kensington Road and then they headed west. They entered the park through the Albert Memorial Gate, near the memorial erected by Queen Victoria to her beloved husband, Albert, who had died of typhoid nearly fifty years before the war. The memorial itself was quite the affair; a statue of a seated Albert stood on a raised dais over which a canopy held up by four columns had been erected, the canopy very much in the style of the ciborium that stands over the altar in many English churches.

  Must be close to 175 feet tall, Burke thought as they made their way past it and into the park proper.

  Just past the memorial was a long, paved walkway known as Lancaster Walk that ran directly north, deeper into the park, and it was along this pathway that Veronica took them. Trees grew thick on either side of the path and Burke was just starting to wonder how on earth Colonel Nichols thought anyone was going to land a plane here when they emerged into an open area where six different pathways, including the one they were on, intersected. An open mall of green grass stretched out to either side, like a long rectangle with the crossroads at its cen
ter. Looking left he could just make out the waters of Round Pond, and beyond that, the grandiose structure of Kensington Palace off in the distance, while to the right the mall extended in the other direction all the way to the banks of the river known in this part of the park as the Long Water. He estimated the distance between the two bodies of water to be a bit over three hundred yards, which seemed like more than enough space for a qualified pilot to land and take off in.

  It would have been perfect, if it weren’t for the damned statue that was situated smack in the middle of it.

  Physical Energy, it was called, and though Burke didn’t really see how a naked man on horseback shielding his eyes against the sun represented that particular concept, he did agree that it was a wonderful piece of work. Unfortunately, the massive bronze sculpture and the granite block on which it had been erected stood right on their planned runway.

  There simply wasn’t enough room for a plane to land on either side of the statue without striking it. At first Burke wondered how the hell someone as meticulous as Nichols could miss something so obvious, but then it dawned on him that it hadn’t been missed at all; Nichols simply expected him to find a solution and deal with it.

  Looking the sculpture over, it was immediately clear that there was no way they were simply going to drag it out of the way. It had to weigh at least a quarter ton; he doubted they even had the brute manpower to knock it over.

  No, their solution was going to have to be of a more permanent nature, no matter how much Burke regretted it.

  He slipped off his rucksack and dug around in it until he located the two Mk III concussion grenades he’d stashed there before leaving France. The grenades were cylinders made of black painted cardboard with a crimped metal bottom and top, surrounding a core of TNT. A fuse assembly with a safety pin and pull ring projected out of the upper end. Unlike the Mk IIs, which were standard defensive fragmentation grenades, the Mk IIIs had been specifically designed to be used during trench and bunker assaults without producing fragments that could injure the user or other friendly forces nearby. Burke figured they’d do the trick quite nicely.