The Baker Street Translation

by Michael Robertson

  “Well, there’s where your theory goes wrong, miss. The event is not on the lake. It’s in the meadow. So how would that work, exactly?”

  “Sergeant Meachem, the lake and the meadow are right next to each other, are they not?”

  “Don’t know, miss. I’ll have to check on that.”

  “Sergeant, please page Nigel Heath. He should be in your building at this very moment. He will confirm what I am telling you.”

  There was a short pause, and then: “Oh, yes,” said Sergeant Meachem. “Nigel Heath is in the building. We have him in custody at this very moment.”

  “In custody—”

  “Thank you for your interest in Scotland Yard, Miss Rankin. We do appreciate and encourage comments from the general public. And have a nice day.”

  And now the line went dead.

  The limo driver took the phone back and switched off the intercom.

  And then he turned his attention—as did Laura—back to the road.

  The procession was coming to a stop.

  They were in Hyde Park.

  36

  Reggie had no good idea of the time, and it was beginning to worry him. It might have been ten minutes since his initial descent; it might have been twenty. If it was thirty, then he had made a bad choice, and all hell would soon be breaking out above him, with him slogging like an oblivious fool below. The thought of this was making his chest tighten, much more so than just the claustrophobia induced by the tunnel.

  It was the type of tunnel euphemistically referred to as “mixed-use.” Reggie knew that now from the stench. It was a storm drain for water, yes, but it was also a sewer.

  There was not enough light to see his watch; he should have bought one of those with the damn fluorescent dials.

  He had continued straight on from the first chamber and had not yet encountered another that was equally wide. Three times he had reached junction points, at which a small overhead cover allowed the most minimal light, and he could see tunnels leading off to either side. But two of those tunnels had been covered by grates, and the third was so much smaller than the one he was in that he had decided—or at least hoped—that it could not possibly be a valid choice, that it was just some sort of ancillary dead end for maintenance.

  Aside from those brief illuminations at the intersections, he’d been working forward in pitch-black darkness. To maintain his balance, he kept one hand in contact with the smooth brick wall, which was slimy from what Reggie presumed was the congealed accumulation of hundreds of years of damp and evaporated filth.

  Now he heard something. A rumbling overhead. He wiped his hand on his coat and then touched the sweating brick wall again. It was faint, but it was there. Just the slightest vibration made it down this far, but it was detectable.

  There was no mistaking it. It could only be one thing—the tube. A subway train was passing overhead.

  It had to be the Northern Line, heading into Baker Street station—no other line could possibly be within the distance Reggie had trudged.

  So that meant he had come at least a half mile due south from where he had entered at Regent’s Park. It meant he was heading in the right general direction—toward Hyde Park.

  Surely, then, even if the suspicion that had formed in his mind was incorrect—that the sewer system was being used by the bomber to get past security and into Hyde Park—at least it would still get Reggie there.

  He slogged on.

  And with luck, there would be steps leading to a grate that would not be locked, and he would be able to climb out to dry ground, and would not end up slogging all the way down to the outfall at the Thames, and be trapped and drowned when the afternoon tide came in.

  What bloody time was it? Would he be too late?

  Had Laura been able to stop the procession?

  Or had she been caught up in it—trapped in the motorcade? That possibility hadn’t even occurred to him before.

  He never should have let her go on that errand. He had completely and utterly failed.

  He slogged on.

  If he had done what he properly should have done when the translator first came to him, perhaps things wouldn’t have come to this. The translator might not have been murdered. The bomb plot might have been foiled. Laura would not be in danger.

  And if he had done what he properly should have done when Laura first came to him with her Buxton problem, things might not have come to this. Buxton might still be alive—which he probably no longer was. The bomb plot might have been foiled.

  And Laura would not be in danger.

  He tried to slog on. The nasty slurry on the floor was getting more watery, but it was getting deeper as well, almost to his knees now. He began to slosh forward faster, not bothering to steady himself against the wall any longer, but with arms outstretched ahead of him in the dark.

  Surely he was running out of time. Had Nigel reached Wembley at Scotland Yard? Had Laura managed to stop the procession, and were they all back at Hampstead having tea? God, he hoped so, because if it was up to Reggie this time, all was lost.

  And then, suddenly, though it must have been there all along, he saw it.

  Light. It almost made him laugh to think of it that way, but there it was—light. Light at the end of the tunnel.

  Or at least somewhere in the tunnel.

  He rushed forward, almost giddy. There was some sort of chamber ahead, like the one where he had begun, but better lit.

  Within fifty yards of that opening, Reggie slipped. He fell forward.

  He managed to get one arm down in time to catch himself; that arm was now up to the elbow in the watery filth; he thrust his other arm into it as well and pushed back off the floor before his face become completely immersed. He staggered back up to his feet.

  Only a few more yards. He was almost there. He could see a gleaming yellow lamp swaying slightly back and forth, pointing in his direction. It was blinding, it was so bright. Reggie pushed forward.

  And then, at the very edge of the raised chamber, he fell again.

  But this time, he didn’t get his arms down. This time, he went face-first into the vile river.

  And then—his head submerged, his arms slipping on the smooth tunnel floor as he tried to push himself up—Reggie felt someone grab the back of his collar and pull.

  “Bloody tourist!” said a man’s voice.

  Reggie got both hands on the raised chamber floor now, pushed, and with that and the assist on his collar, he managed to stand.

  Reggie shook the filth from his hands and stepped forward onto the semidry floor. Then he tried to wipe the sewer water from his eyes and focus. He gestured for his rescuer to lower the industrial-strength electric lantern that was shining in his face.

  The man lowered the light slightly, and now Reggie got a look. He saw a man in knee-high rubber waders and a pale green uniform, with the logo of the Royal Parks Service on the shoulder. The man didn’t introduce himself, but the name Aspic was sewn in red onto his shirt pocket.

  “You’re going to need more shots than you can even count. More gamma globulin than the Health Service even keeps in stock,” said Aspic. “You’ve no idea. Why anyone thinks it a lark to come take a stroll in a sewer is beyond me. It’s not a recreation area. But you‘ll wish you hadn’t. Bloody sewer tourer.”

  “I’m no—what did you call me?”

  Reggie took a moment to assess his benefactor. Aspic was about Reggie’s height, of thick build, probably mid-fifties. White skin, pale even by London standards. A working-class accent much like Reggie’s own before Reggie had gone to university, but with a bit of an affectation.

  He wore a uniform that Reggie had seen frequently on Royal Parks workers; it wasn’t a new uniform, and it fit as though he had been using it for a very long time. He carried the lantern as though he had done so for years.

  “Sewer tourer,” said Aspic. “You’re not the first I’ve found. There’ve been others. You think just because it’s not easy to get into the sewer
, and unpleasant once you do, that it makes you an explorer. It doesn’t. And you can call it an underground river, you can claim you’re exploring the hidden Westbourne River, or Tyburn, or whatever you want—but you’re not. You’re just a slogger about in turds and pee. You’re a sewer tourer.”

  “Believe me,” said Reggie. “I would not be here if I didn’t have to be.”

  The uniformed man regarded Reggie suspiciously.

  “Look at me,” said Reggie. “Would I wear a suit like this into a sewer voluntarily? Would I have worn these shoes?”

  The man nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “I see your point. A chalk-stripe suit. That does make you a bit of a toff. I’ll give you that.”

  “Thank you,” said Reggie.

  “What are you doing here, then?”

  “I must get to Hyde Park immediately,” said Reggie.

  Aspic considered that. “When people say ‘take the underground,’” he said, “they usually mean the tube—not the sewer.”

  “In minutes,” said Reggie, “I believe there will be an explosion at an assembly in Hyde Park that will kill dozens of people. If my guess is correct, it will come from down here. If my guess is wrong, it will come from somewhere above. Either way, I must get there immediately.”

  The park worker’s face was hard to read as Reggie said this; Reggie couldn’t see him clearly. But the man’s posture stiffened.

  “Sounds unlikely to me,” he said to Reggie. “Just who are you?”

  “Reggie Heath, QC, Baker Street Chambers,” said Reggie, hoping it would sound impressive enough to enlist cooperation.

  Aspic aimed the lantern at Reggie again and studied his face.

  “All right,” said Aspic after a moment. “I’ll take you there.”

  He took the lantern off Reggie for a moment and scanned it quickly around the little chamber they were standing in. There were three tunnels, not counting the one Reggie had come from. The one in the center looked much like a continuation of the one he had been in. The ones on each side were slightly narrower, but still high enough that Reggie would have to stoop only slightly, and they were much drier.

  “You can follow me,” said the man, illuminating the tunnel on his left. “I’ll warrant you would have gone the wrong way if I hadn’t come along. No one would have seen you again until they found you drowned and floating like a chalk-striped turd in the Thames.”

  37

  At Scotland Yard, Nigel was in the interrogation room reserved for only the most frightening terrorist suspects.

  There were not just one, but two uniformed bobbies standing guard outside the locked door.

  There were not just one, but two separate wall-length one-way windows, from which representatives from various agencies, if any of them were available, which they were not, could look in on the proceedings.

  And Nigel had not just one, but three interrogators—a plainclothes detective named Pierce, in his late fifties, a woman from the forensics lab, fortyish, named O’Shea, and Sergeant Meachem himself.

  Amazingly, when Nigel had blocked Sergeant Meachem’s car at the gate and accused the officer of concealing a bomb detonator in a plastic duck, no one had taken his word for it.

  Possibly, Nigel acknowledged to himself, this was the foreseeable result—but he just hadn’t been able to think of what else to do.

  The duck itself was now resting in the center of the table.

  “Now then,” said Pierce. “Let me be sure I understand. You are saying that Sergeant Meachem here was attempting to drive past the Scotland Yard security gate with a bombing device in the boot of his car, concealed in the body cavity of a plastic duck. This duck we have here on the table in front of us.”

  “Yes, but not the explosive itself,” said Nigel. “Just a detonator.”

  “Yes, as I said,” said detective Pierce, just a tad annoyed. “A bombing device.”

  “Correct,” said Nigel as agreeably as he could.

  “You may not be aware,” continued Pierce, “that Sergeant Meachem graduated third in his class last year in ‘Detection and Handling of Explosive Devices.’”

  “I was not aware,” said Nigel. He checked his watch. Time was running out, but it was a close call as to whether saying so would move things along or slow them down.

  “If he had not,” continued Pierce, “I would never have saw fit to recommend my wife’s nephew for such a position in assisting Inspector Wembley.”

  “Understandable,” said Nigel.

  “Well, then,” said Pierce, and he sat back with his hands folded, as if he had settled the matter. Then he leaned forward and added, “You do understand that interfering with a Metropolitan police officer in the performance of his duties is a felony?”

  “Sergeant Meachem wasn’t performing his duties,” said Nigel. “He was smuggling evidence in a murder investigation—including a detonation device intended for use at an event that takes place, as I’ve been trying to tell you, within the hour. Time is running out.”

  “Well now, if there is a detonation device, as you claim, and if it is right here in this duck, as you claim, then there’s not so much urgency now, is there?” said Meachem. “We already have it in our possession.”

  “There are other ducks like this one,” said Nigel. “I don’t know how many, but I believe each of these toys brought into the country and assembled by Elgar Imports is a potential bomb—containing a microchip for detonation and lacking only the explosive and the action of a person who knows the code to set it off.”

  “Total rubbish,” said Meachem.

  Now O’Shea, the forensics examiner, leaned forward and put her hands on the duck.

  “Let’s just have a look for this microchip, then, shall we?” she said.

  “Fine by me,” said Meachem. “Let’s.”

  Nigel breathed a sigh of relief. Now they would get somewhere.

  The woman carefully touched the toy all around the edges.

  “So. We appear to have a plastic toy duck. Or possibly goose. Roughly fifty centimeters long and twenty wide. White plastic body. Yellow plastic beak.” She picked it up and set it down. “Weighing approximately twenty ounces.”

  “Check the compartment underneath,” said Nigel.

  She gave Nigel a look that told him to stop giving instructions. She proceeded to check the battery compartment.

  “We have a battery compartment,” she said, “approximately four centimeters by six, containing”—she peered inside—“two double A batteries.”

  “The other compartment,” said Nigel. “Right next to it. There. There’s no tab on it, but you can pry it loose.”

  Nigel received another one of those looks, but the forensic examiner proceeded to pry open the second compartment.

  “A second compartment,” she said. “Approximately two centimeters by three. Containing”—she peered inside—“nothing.”

  “Are you sure?” said Nigel to O’Shea.

  She held the duck up, underside out, for Nigel and all to see.

  Empty.

  Meachem and his uncle by marriage both gave Nigel a smug look.

  “A felony,” said Meachem, with great satisfaction. “Interfering with a police officer in the performance of his duty is a felony.”

  For a moment, Nigel could say nothing.

  He looked up at the clock. Ten minutes remained before the birthday celebration was scheduled to commence at Hyde Park.

  Nigel glared across at Meachem.

  “He could have put it in his coat. Or his pants pocket. He had just enough time.”

  “This is completely unnecessary and more than a little insulting,” said Meachem.

  Nigel looked for help to the forensics examiner.

  “Coat, please,” she said to Meachem.

  Meachem sighed, as if greatly put out. Then he stood and removed his coat. He handed it to O’Shea.

  She checked the pockets. All empty.

  She pointed at Meachem’s pants.

&
nbsp; Meachem, without further prompting, began to undo his belt buckle.

  “No, no, please,” said O’Shea. “Just pockets inside out. Please.”

  Meachem did as he was told, showing the cheap white inside linings of his pockets.

  All empty.

  “A felony,” said Meachem’s uncle by marriage.

  Five minutes remained.

  This was getting extremely problematic. Meachem had to have the chip on him; Nigel had kept him in sight except for the briefest moment, and there’d been no place where he could have discarded it in the car park without it immediately being found in a search, and they had, in fact, done a search. The Yard was nothing if not thorough.

  It would be found. It would have to be. But it would be too late.

  Then, suddenly, Nigel realized the obvious.

  “May I make a call?”

  “You are allowed two calls from the public phone before we take you to your holding cell,” said Meachem with something of a smirk.

  “Won’t be necessary,” said Nigel. “Just one call—right now—from my mobile.”

  Meachem looked suspiciously at Nigel.

  “If it will wrap this up, go right ahead,” said Pierce.

  Nigel took out his mobile and quickly punched in the coded number that they had identified at Baker Street.

  From the look on Meachem’s face, Nigel could see that the sergeant realized now what was up and was about to object—but too late.

  “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,” said a plastic duck’s voice.

  But it wasn’t coming from the duck.

  Pierce looked at Meachem.

  “Did you say something?”

  Panic began to register on Meachem’s face.

  “Pardon me,” said Meachem, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Nigel dialed the number again.

  “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.”

  Now everyone in the room looked in the general direction of Meachem’s stomach.

  Nigel dialed again.

  Meachem leaped up and bolted for the door.

  38

  Reggie stooped down to clear the six-foot ceiling and followed the Royal Parks Service worker into the tunnel.