Forget the motorboat. That boat, in Reggie’s opinion, had been a ruse. It might even have been empty.
What mattered was this sewer cover. Quite possibly the thing had been in place for the past forty or fifty years, untouched. And Reggie knew that if that were the case, he wouldn’t be able to dislodge it now, for the first time in ages, without tools. Years of dirt and rust would have locked it in place.
He almost hoped that would be the case.
He got down on the muddy ground, put two fingers though a narrow horizontal opening at the top of the plate, and tried to lift it.
The plate moved. Not much—it had to weigh more than sixty pounds—but it did move.
So someone else had been here, and recently.
Reggie adjusted his position for a better grip and managed to slide the front of the plate forward onto the lip of the concrete.
Now he was able to get one hand on each side. He lifted again, got the entire plate clear of the concrete casement, and shoved it aside, into the damp grass.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Reggie.
He was looking down at the top of a series of iron bars, set in the concrete to serve as steps, leading straight down into a pitch-dark chamber.
He wished he had not been successful in prying the thing loose.
But he had done. He checked his watch. Forty-five minutes remained. And he still couldn’t be really certain he was on the right track.
But he had come this far. There was no choice but to follow through. And if his hunch was right, he would get to the location at Hyde Park almost as quickly this way as he would driving in heavy traffic.
He took off his mac, tossed it across a tree branch, and began his descent.
Eight feet, straight down—and then he stepped into a chamber some ten feet in diameter, constructed of very old tan and red brick.
It could have been from the nineteenth century, or maybe the eighteenth—he wasn’t sure. But the brick was old, and smooth, from years of water running over the fine edges of the brick, and slime accumulating on its surface.
There were two tunnels, both seven or eight feet high. One went north, the other south. It was an easy choice. The one headed south would lead to Hyde Park.
Unless he had the whole thing totally wrong.
Reggie stooped down at first to make sure he had cleared the tunnel ceiling, then began to slog.
The muck oozed over the tops of his shoes, soaked his socks, and got down in between his toes, and the scent of the place began to assault his senses.
So far, it was just the odor of old water, mud, and slime.
He hoped it would not turn into something worse. But he was almost sure it would.
34
In the refurbished commissary on the fourth floor of Scotland Yard, Nigel sat across a square glass café table from Sergeant Meachem and wondered whether the Yard was having trouble attracting qualified recruits.
Sergeant Meachem was simply dense. There was no other way to describe him.
Well, physically, Nigel would have said Meachem was tall, narrow-shouldered, and the typical age for someone fresh out of the Metropolitan Police training school, in his mid- or late twenties.
Mentally—which was all that mattered—the man was dense.
Nigel had been tracking Meachem down through the corridors at Scotland Yard for the past half hour. Detective Inspector Wembley, according to the desk sergeant, was already out with most of his team on the detail that was protecting the prince’s international dinner at Clarence House. Meachem was the contact everyone in the building kept referring Nigel to in Wembley’s stead, but Meachem always seemed one step beyond wherever the last person said he was supposed to be.
Nigel followed doggedly, and now he had finally cornered the man, just steps away from the commissary coffee urn.
“I don’t think you fully understand what I’m telling you,” said Nigel. He held the little computer chip up within inches of Meachem’s face, so close that Meachem should have felt obliged to push it away. “I think this is a detonator,” said Nigel for at least the third time.
Meachem was apparently not easily provoked. He stirred his coffee before responding.
“And you found it inside a plastic duck,” said Meachem, as if that settled the matter.
“Yes,” said Nigel. “A plastic duck like the one my brother said you brought from a crime scene at a Docklands warehouse to the analysis lab here at the Yard. Detective Inspector Wembley told you to do that, did he not?”
Nigel was overstepping his bounds in the way he said this, and he knew it, but observing the proprieties was getting him nowhere.
Meachem looked away for a moment, nodded, and then looked directly back at Nigel, his eyes narrowing and lines suddenly appearing in his smooth forehead.
“Yes,” said Meachem. “Your brother was at that crime scene. And he intruded himself at an earlier one, as well. Some other people here at the Yard apparently feel that he is entitled to special privileges. Perhaps because of that thing with the Black Cab case a while back. But I, for one, do not see it.”
“The duck,” said Nigel, holding up the microchip. “Can we get back to this and the duck?”
Meachem’s forehead got even more severe.
“I did deliver the plastic duck to the lab, as Detective Inspector Wembley requested that I do, and not because you or your brother have any say in the matter. When the lab has finished its work, they will notify me. But they have not yet done so.”
Meachem stood now, and he forced a slight smile, in a falsely apologetic, public-relations sort of way.
“Now I’m afraid I must attend to my other duties. Thank you for your interest. Scotland Yard is always open to input from the public and we thank you for your comments. Please pay for your own coffee on the way out, and bear in mind that you have only a visitor’s pass and you are not entitled to the police officer’s discount.”
Meachem turned on his heel and walked toward the exit from the commissary, heading to the interior corridors of the building.
Nigel was furious at the intransigence, but he restrained himself. With the large plastic visitor’s pass hanging from his neck, he stopped at the cashier and paid for his coffee, and considered what to do.
First, he decided, get rid of the visitor’s pass. He tucked it inside his shirt as soon as he got into the corridor. Better to be showing no ID, and let someone wonder and ask, than to be advertising that he had no official capacity.
Second: bypass Meachem and go directly to the lab.
Nigel took the stairs down to the second floor. He walked comfortably down the corridor as though he belonged, and he reached the glass door to the lab without being challenged.
But now there was a problem: The entrance to the analysis lab was always locked; it required an identity card key for entry, and Nigel, of course, did not have one.
Nigel stepped back from the door; the only thing to do would be to lurk inconspicuously at the corridor drinking fountain, wait for someone else to enter the lab, and tailgate in—with luck.
Then he paused. Peering through the glass entrance, he had a clear view of the center portion of the lab, all the way back to the far exit. At the moment, no lab workers were visible. But he did not have a clear view of the evidence lockers on the left side of the room, and now, from that side, Meachem had stepped into the line of sight. He had something in his arms.
This was odd. Scotland Yard had its procedures, many of them. Sergeant Meachem had access to the lab, but once evidence was delivered there, he had no business touching it in any way without a lab operative present.
Nigel saw Meachem glance up, as if that very thought had just occurred to him, as well.
Nigel shrank back against the wall, barely out of Meachem’s line of sight, waited a moment, and then peeked past the door again to watch.
Apparently satisfied that he was alone, Meachem was now placing the object he had taken from the evidence lockers onto a long steel lab table.
Nigel could see the object clearly now, the white-and-yellow plastic reflecting on the shining metal: It was the duck.
Now Meachem took a large plastic evidence bag from a drawer beneath the table; he put the duck inside, closed the bag, and with one more cautious glance around, he headed for the exit at the far end. Nigel saw the automatically locking door close behind him.
Nigel took a breath. So Meachem was not dense. He was something worse.
Meachem had to be heading for the car park. He wouldn’t likely take a chance on going out the front door. He had only a slight head start, and he didn’t know that he had been seen, so at least that much was in Nigel’s favor.
Nigel turned and ran back down the corridor. He took the stairs, allowing his visitor’s badge to flap back and forth in front of him as he ran.
He reached the ground floor. He looked out through the front window toward the exit gate for the car park. The gate was still closed; no one had just gone through. That meant there was still time.
Nigel ran through the main exit.
A public-minded officer on his way in started to ask if something was wrong as Nigel passed by, but there was no time to explain.
“Been lovely,” Nigel shouted back, not pausing. “Don’t want to miss tea.”
At the front entrance on Broadway, the contemporary cube sign announcing New Scotland Yard was slowly turning. Directly beneath it was the gate for the car park, always kept closed until a car approached with a valid pass.
Nigel ran to the gate; just as he reached it, it began to open, in response to someone punching in from the car park.
Nigel stood in the middle of the exit as the gate arms raised; he pivoted and looked back in the direction of the car park. An older-model Saab was coming directly toward him.
And behind the wheel was Meachem.
Nigel couldn’t think of anything else to do. He stood his ground, his feet planted in front of the gate, and thrust his arms forward, palms facing out, as if they would constitute an effective barrier, and shouted, “Stop!”
And then he hoped for the best.
35
Laura’s cab was arriving in Hampstead. The driver turned left from Kentish Town into a long road that ran along Primrose Hill. They began to pass large private estates, positioned with spectacular views of Hampstead Heath and the London skyline.
If housing was a reliable indicator of social class, this ride told Laura that she had not yet arrived.
Yes, she had achieved some success on the London stage and in her first movie role. But the small mews home she had managed to afford in Chelsea was nothing compared to what she was passing now in Hampstead, and her position in the London theater community was nothing compared to that of Lady Ashton-Tate.
They had never met personally. But Laura had seen the occasional rumors in print that she, Laura, had been getting the sort of lead ingenue roles that Lady Ashton-Tate was no longer young enough to take.
Laura hoped this would not pose a problem today. She knew that her own eligibility for such roles would soon begin to fade. Perhaps Lady Ashton-Tate was equally philosophical.
Laura checked her watch, anxiously. “How much longer?” she asked the driver.
“We’re there now,” he said, and Laura looked out the window and saw that, yes, they were. The cab turned into a long driveway that led to an expansive home with green lawns and a white-columned porch in the front.
Lady Ashton-Tate’s procession had already assembled. There were four limos in all, and the first was already pulling out of the drive.
“Let me out here,” said Laura. She paid the driver, did not wait for change, and ran quickly to the nearest limo, the next to last in line.
Laura rapped on the driver’s window. “Stop the car, please.”
The car did not quite stop, but it did slow. The passenger window rolled down. It was the lady herself.
“I didn’t know you did causes,” said Lady Ashton-Tate, sounding only slightly catty as Laura walked briskly alongside to keep up. “Lovely day for a jog, don’t you think? I’m sure it will be in the fifties, at least. And I would have been happy to invite you. After all, it isn’t really about my birthday at all.”
“Oh, I know. And I would have been delighted to attend even so. But this is very important. Please stop the car. Now.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry. But as you can see, my car is quite full, and we’re running late,” said Lady Ashton-Tate. “However, there is another right behind me. There may be a space, and if there is, I’m sure you’ll be welcome to it.”
This didn’t sound promising. Laura considered the possibility that Lady Ashton-Tate had indeed been reading the tabloids.
And before Laura could say anything more, the window rolled up and the limo picked up speed as it moved through the gate.
That had not gone well.
Laura ran up to the next car in line—the last in the procession—and pounded on the passenger window.
The window rolled down.
“Laura—how nice to see you!”
Laura recognized the young woman inside, a makeup artist. Not someone in direct competition, and younger than Laura. With luck, that would make her feel empowered and benevolent.
“You, too, Bernice.”
“Why are you jogging alongside our limo?” asked Bernice. “I know you’re a bit of a runner, but we’re supposed to ride to the park, and then—”
“May I get in?”
“Of course!”
The limo came to a stop, the passenger door opened, and Laura slid in.
Then they continued on.
“I saw you talking to Lady Ashton-Tate just now,” said the makeup artist. “I’m so glad you chose to join us instead. After the basic birthday toast, we’re all going to jog about the park a bit to celebrate red squirrels, and if we see any of the big brutish American gray ones that are taking over just everywhere, I think we’re allowed to kick them.”
“Do we have a way of communicating with the lead car?” asked Laura.
“I think so,” said the makeup artist. “Say, why do you have a plastic duck in your lap?”
“It’s a long story,” said Laura. She pressed the intercom to speak with the driver. “Can we speak with the lead car?”
The driver held up a mobile phone.
“I have this, ma’am.”
“Call them, please, and tell them to stop the procession.”
“I’m sorry. Say again?”
“Tell them to stop the procession.”
The driver glanced back at Laura. She gave a look in return that made it clear she wasn’t joking.
Now the driver made a call on the mobile and exchanged a few words with someone at the other end. Then he turned back to Laura.
“Sorry, I’m afraid we can’t stop. But not to worry, we’ll be at our destination in just a bit, if you forgot to powder up.”
“Just let me speak with the lead car,” said Laura brusquely. “Right now.”
The driver hesitated just briefly; then he passed the phone to Laura through the partition.
“You must stop the procession,” said Laura immediately into the phone. “You must cancel the event and disperse any crowd that has gathered.”
It took a moment, and then an official-sounding male voice finally responded.
“Who is this, please?”
“Laura Rankin.”
“And which party are you with?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Laura. “You must stop the procession. There is a bomb.”
“Making a bomb threat is a very serious offense, miss,” said the man.
“I am not making a threat. I am telling you what is about to happen.” She hesitated for just a moment. “Probably. I think. Let me speak to the person in charge.”
“That would be me, miss. Sergeant Tooley, Scotland Yard.”
“You are in charge of this specific detail, Sergeant. But Detective Inspector Wembley is in charge of the current royal e
vents. Call the Yard, tell him what I told you, and tell him who said it. And tell him Nigel Heath should be there at the Yard at this very moment. He has all the details. He will confirm what I’m telling you.”
“One moment,” said the sergeant.
There was a pause of almost three minutes. Laura looked through the window. The procession was moving slowly, but it was already in sight of the Lancaster Gate at Hyde Park. Laura guessed they had less than five minutes.
But now, mercifully, there was someone new at the other end of the line.
“Detective Inspector Wembley is on site at Clarence House for the prince’s dinner,” said Sergeant Tooley. “But I have Sergeant Meachem on the line at Scotland Yard. Would you like to talk with him?”
“Yes, let’s.”
Laura waited for Meachem to come on the line. Looking through the window, she could see the glistening frost on the trees on the perimeter of Hyde Park. A beautiful winter morning; no snow, just crisp, perfect for a jog. And they were getting close. They were almost there.
“Miss Rankin, this is Sergeant Meachem. How may I help you?”
“Sergeant, you must stop the procession. You must cancel the event and disperse any crowd that has gathered. There is a bomb, and it is set to go off the moment the birthday festivities begin.”
“Making a bomb threat is a very serious—”
“Sergeant, I am not making a threat, I am telling you what I know!”
“I see. Can you help us out just a bit more, then? We have security completely surrounding the park. So just how is this bomb being delivered?”
“It’s in a duck. Like the one I have here in my lap. I could show it to you, but that will be too late.”
“If you have a plastic duck in your lap that you believe contains a bomb, Miss Rankin, may I suggest that you discard it?”
“The bomb is not in my duck, Sergeant; it’s in another duck, just like the one I have, at the event.”
“I see. And why would anyone choose to put a bomb in a duck?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant. Because it would go unnoticed among all the real ducks in the park? Because it floats?”
The Baker Street Translation Page 19