The King's Deception (47 page)

K
ATHLEEN FOLLOWED
M
ALONE AS THEY EXITED THE
U
NDERGROUND
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.

A
NTRIM 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.”

M
ALONE ENTERED THE
I
NNS OF
C
OURT AND REPLAYED
T
HOMAS
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.

G
ARY 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 stopped.

“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.

I
AN WAS PROUD OF HIMSELF
. H
E’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.

K
ATHLEEN ENTERED THE
B
LACKFRIARS 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.