The King's Deception

Antrim 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.”

* * *

Malone entered the Inns of Court and replayed Thomas 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.

* * *

Gary 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.