The King's Deception (Cotton Malone 8)

They climbed down into the wet trench, using one of the wooden ladders, and made their way toward a yawn in the earth that opened into a darkened chasm. He blinked the sun from his eyes and adjusted to the dim light. Concrete wall rose to his left, bare earth to his right, the path well traveled, the dirt here dry and compact beneath his sneakers.

Antrim stopped and signaled for quiet.

He heard nothing save for the rumble of the nearby traffic.

An opening in the wall could be seen ahead.

Antrim approached, glanced inside, then motioned for him to follow. They entered and saw that the exposed structure housed a rail line, the tracks in disrepair, rebar everywhere awaiting wet cement. Incandescent floodlights burned bright, illuminating the windowless space. He wondered how Antrim knew where to go, but assumed the email earlier in the café had provided the necessary information.

Antrim hopped up to another level from the dirt around the tracks and they crept deeper inside. The cool air smelled of wet mud and dry cement. More tripods with flood lamps lit the way. He estimated they were at least twenty feet underground, beneath the glass-fronted building overhead. They came to a wide-open space that funneled to shafts angling farther down into the ground.

“This foyer is where passengers will come down from above, then make their way to the tracks,” Antrim whispered.

Gary glanced into one of the down shafts. The next level was fifty feet beneath him. No steps or escalator were present. More lights burned below. Another wooden ladder, one of several propped in the shaft, allowed a way down.

“That’s where we have to go,” Antrim said.

KATHLEEN FOLLOWED MALONE AS THEY EXITED THE UNDERGROUND 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.

Fifty-eight

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.

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“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.