The Baker Street Translation (25 page)

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 events. 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?”

“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.