The King's Deception

But no answer was offered.

* * *

Ian was proud of himself. He’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.

* * *

Kathleen entered the Blackfriars 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.

* * *

Ian spied Gary Malone being led by another man. Tall. Young. A copper, no doubt.

“I don’t want to leave,” Gary said.

“This is not up to you. Keep moving.”

“You’re lying to me. My dad’s not at St. Paul’s.”

“He is. Let’s go.”

Gary stopped and faced his minder. “I’m going back.”

The man reached beneath his jacket, produced a gun, and pointed the barrel straight at Gary. “Keep. Moving.”

“You’re going to shoot me?”

Gutsy. He’d give Gary that. But he wasn’t as sure of the answer to that question as Gary seemed to be.

His mind raced.

What to do?

Then it came to him. Just like a month ago in that car. With Mathews and the other man who’d wanted to kill him. He’d left the plastic bag with his treasures at Miss Mary’s bookstore, but he’d removed the knife and pepper spray.

Both were in his pockets.

He smiled.

Worked once.

Why not again.

* * *

Gary stood his ground and dared the guy to pull the trigger. The extent of his courage surprised him, but he was more concerned about his dad than himself.

And Antrim, who’d brushed him off.

Which hurt.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Ian walking toward them.

What in the world was he doing here?

The man with the gun saw him, too. “This is a restricted site.”

“I take a wander in here all the time,” Ian said, still approaching.

The man seemed to realize that he was holding an exposed gun and lowered it. Which only confirmed that there would not be any shooting.

“You a copper?” Ian asked.

“That’s right. And you can’t be here.”

Ian came close and stopped. His right hand whipped upward and Gary heard the hiss of spray. The man with the gun howled, both hands searching for his eyes. Ian swung his foot up and slammed the sole of his shoe into the man’s stomach, dropping him to the concrete.

Both boys ran.

“I heard what he told you,” Ian said. “Your dad is not at St. Paul’s. He’s here.”

Fifty-nine

Antrim crouched low as they negotiated the narrow passage. Power cables were bolted near the barrel ceiling, lights inside wire cages every seventy-five feet or so, their glow nearly blinding.

“We discovered these tunnels,” Mathews said, “when Blackfriars station was first rebuilt in the 1970s. A convenient entrance to them was incorporated into the new station and kept under our control. We ran power into here, and you are about to learn why.”

Mathews was shorter and did not need to watch his head. The older man just clipped along, the dirt floor dry as a desert.