by Mark Leggatt
“There’s one more thing I’ve got to do,” she said. “Did you notice that electrician at the end of the corridor?”
“Yeah. What, you’re going to steal his tools?”
“No.” She pulled out her purse. “He was wearing the best disguise of all. Give me two minutes and meet me at the top of the steps to the hotel lobby.”
He glanced up at the window, but the boots were gone.
She saw him looking. “Listen to me. The cops have checked this road and they’ve moved on. There will be others at the junction, but you only have about one hundred yards until you make it to Hyde Park. It’s the end of the street, turn left, straight across the road. You can’t miss it, it’s a big green thing full of annoying Americans.”
“Kirsty...”
“Shut up. Go into the park and take the path that leads south west. At the far end you’ll see Kensington Palace. Some minor royals and other benefit scroungers still live there so there will be coppers around, but the last thing the CIA will expect us to do is go sightseeing, so stick to the tourists. Ditch the kurta and cap before you go in. Otherwise the fascist bastards will think you’re a terrorist. When you’re inside, call Zac.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to take the path directly west, towards the Princess Diana memorial then back onto the street. The Russian Embassy is fifty yards from there. I’ll be able to watch you crossing the park. If I see someone tailing you, I’ll call.” She reached into her bag and brought out an iPhone. “It’s clean. Zac has the number.”
“Okay and then what?”
“Zac will talk you down. I’ll see you on the other side. Go.”
*
Montrose slotted the earphones into his ear and then covered them with the headphones handed out by the tour guide. He let the other tourists walk past him as they were called forward by the guide. He looked over their heads to a wide, ornate staircase, its steps covered in checkered marble and the palace walls lined with gilded frescos.
The guide held up his hands to stop the group. “Please ensure you have switched off your mobile phones before we continue.” He waved his hands theatrically behind him. “This is the King’s Staircase.”
Montrose covered the mic with his hand and held it to his lips. “Zac, you hear me?”
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“Grand entrance hall. King’s Staircase.”
“I gotcha. Okay, lose the tourists.”
He watched the guide lead the crowd up the staircase and bent down to inspect his shoelace. He looked up as the group turned at the first level, then he ducked behind the side of the staircase. He listened to the voices fade away and pulled out the folded hi-vis vest and penknife that Kirsty had bought from the electrician in the hotel. “Ready. I’m at the bottom right of the staircase.”
“Across from you there’s a door. Go through and go down the corridor to the end.”
Montrose checked the front entrance and saw two guides herding the next group of tourists into line and checking their tickets. He darted over to the door and pulled it open. Let’s make this fast. He closed the door and set off down the corridor. Office doors were open either side, but it was quiet. At the very end of the corridor he saw a door with a push button digital lock. That’s the one.
A woman carrying a stack of files came out of an office, into the corridor.
Shit.
She stopped and looked at him quizzically for a moment. “Can I help you?”
Montrose pointed to the door at the end of the corridor and smiled, then held a finger to his lips. He brushed past her and stood in front of the keypad. He whispered into the mic. “Zac, the code.”
“1855.”
He punched the buttons. The lock turned and he shot a glance back along the corridor. The woman smiled and turned away. He looked down a stairwell where the plain walls and thinly varnished balustrade stood in contrast to the grand rooms elsewhere. “I’m in. Is this a fire escape?”
“No way, man, it’s hundreds of years old. You’re in the servants’ stairs,” said Zac. “They have access to the entire building. Go down. All the way.”
His senses on edge, Montrose hurried down the steps. At the bottom he faced another door. “There’s no lock.”
“Go for it.”
He pushed the door handle as smoothly as he could and the door opened into darkness. He stuck his hand around the door jamb and fumbled for a light switch. A forty-watt bulb barely illuminated a dingy cellar, where worn stone steps led down to a floor strewn with rubbish and boxes.
“You there?” said Zac.
“I can see it,” said Montrose. “And I can smell it.” He stepped forward and shone the iPhone’s torch through a grate in the floor. Below was a circular metal door that reminded him of a submarine hatch. “I got it.”
“Listen, dude, as soon as you’re in the pipe this signal is gonna cut. Just remember what I told you, okay? The plans are on your iPhone. They’re not great, but it’s the best I can do.”
“Understood.” Montrose grasped the cold metal bars and hauled back the grate. It swung to the side and dropped onto the earth floor. He knelt and grabbed the wheel on the hatch. It turned smoothly in his hands. He pulled it back and peered in.
“The sewer pipe is about ten feet wide,” said Zac. “But the inner core is about four feet in diameter and lined with equipment, according to these plans. It’s a pipe in a pipe. You lie on a tray and move along on rails. So, it’s going to be, er, kinda cozy.”
Montrose looked down at a wooden tray sitting on rails.
“Lie on your back,” said Zac. “That way you can operate the switches above. And ditch anything you’re wearing that’s going to snag on the equipment.”
“Yeah.” He stepped in, steadying his feet on the tray as it moved on the rails. “Is this motorized?”
“Don’t think so, man. You’ve got to slide yourself along. Lie on your back, head first and push your feet against the bottom of the pipe. This is Cold War technology.”
“Yeah, just one step up from the Great Escape. Is there a light switch?”
“I’m checking.”
He pulled off the hi-vis vest and threw it to the side, then lowered himself down, lying flat on his back. The sides of the pipe brushed his shoulders. “Jesus, this must have been built by fucking dwarves.”
“You lying flat?”
“Yeah.”
“The light switch is above your head. Third one from the left. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“The diagrams are about fifty pages long. Those pipes are stuffed with all sorts of black ops surveillance shit.”
Montrose flicked the switch and several tiny lamps began to glow. “That’s it?”
“That’s all it says here.”
He lay back and looked at his feet, but the amber light barely lit his sneakers. He tipped his head back and could see nothing but darkness. “They can’t be serious.”
“When you get to your destination there’s a red light. Stop there. Above it will be another switch, so you’ll see the escape hatch.”
“Oh, yeah, great. The height of fucking technology. Anything else?”
“If there is, it’s on the phone. That’s all I got. Good luck, dude.”
He steadied himself on the tray, then twisted his shoulders and reached up to pull the hatch closed. It slid out of his grasp and slammed shut. “Zac?”
There was no response. Montrose saw his breath condensing inches from his face on the cold metal where cable racks hung either side of the pipe and brushed his shoulders. Don’t touch anything. The Brits will know. He banged his elbows as he shifted on the tray, then pushed with his feet. This pipe is full of listening devices. Yeah, they’re gonna fucking know. He lifted a hand and turned a metal wheel on the rear of the hatch. Th
e bolts squealed and slid into place. He pushed down with his feet and the tray slid into darkness.
*
Kane stood in the middle of the floor, looking up at a wall covered in screens, turning his head back and forth to each camera view. A row of MI5 operatives behind desks stretched across the floor, scanning each screen and manipulating the cameras with joysticks.
An operative spun around in his chair. “We found her.” One of the screens flickered then expanded across all the others, showing a young woman dressed in a leopard skin coat striding down the road.
Kane started up at the screen. “Where is she?”
“Bayswater Road.”
“Get her.” He watched her stop at a garbage pail and dump her coat, then turn into a street where armed guards stood between tall stone pillars. “Where the hell is that?”
“Kensington Palace Gardens, sir.”
“Whatever. I want two teams on her. Right now.”
Campbell edged up beside him and shook his head. “No. We can’t.”
“What the fuck do you mean, no?”
Campbell held out his hands. “Kensington Palace Gardens is the one street in London where we can’t charge in. And I think she knows that.”
“There’s nowhere we can’t go. Including Downing Street. Do it.”
“Sir, that street is home to a whole host of embassies, including the Israelis, the Saudis and the Russians.”
“The Russians?”
“That road is the most sensitive place in London. It’s blocked at both ends by armed guards. We have to wait.”
“That really is fucking amazing. Get her on camera. See where she goes.”
An MI5 technician stood up. “I’m afraid not, sir. It’s embassy confidentiality. There are no cameras on that street, apart from those hardwired to the guardhouse. The embassies were concerned about MI5 monitoring their activities. Understandable, really. Besides, the whole street belongs to Her Majesty the Queen. We’d need her permission. The PM was happy to comply with the embassies’ request.”
“He was happy to fucking roll over, you mean. I want two teams at each end.”
“Perhaps she’s seeking asylum,” said Campbell.
Kane’s face turned red as he spun around. “Asylum? If Montrose is working with that bitch and she goes to the Russians, I’ll burn that fucking place down.” He looked away for a moment, then beckoned to one of the black-suited figures. The man hurried over and Kane leaned over to him and spoke in a low voice. “Listen to me. Operation Spanish King. Just in case. Get the team ready. Understood?”
The man nodded and hurried towards the door.
Campbell cleared his throat. “I think we may need higher authority for that particular operation, sir. Grosvenor Square would certainly need to authorize an escalation.”
“Whatever. I know who to talk to.”
“As do I, sir. I have a direct line to the people required. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.” Campbell turned away before Kane could respond.
*
Arkangel leaned over the laptop where a Google Street View image flashed on the screen. “What is that?”
“Student accommodation. We’ve broken into his laptop registry. We have the IP.”
“He’s a student? Where?”
“Cambridge University. There are over fifty rooms in the building. We’ll have the exact location soon. The team have landed and are standing by.”
“Don’t do anything until I tell you, understand? I want to know what they know. See what they see. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
*
He tried to look behind but darkness enveloped him. Just keep your eyes closed. His head hung back over the edge of the tray and sweat rolled down his cheeks and into his eyes. He stopped for a moment and tried to lift his hands to wipe his face, but his arm smacked into something hard on the side of the pipe. Squeezing his shoulders together, he managed to maneuver his hand towards his face and grab the collar of his T-shirt. Using his thumb and forefinger, he pushed as much sweat as possible from his face and then twisted his arm back to his side.
He opened his eyes, searching for a red light, but there was nothing. Keep going. The sooner I’m out of this shithole, the better. He felt his breathing quicken. No, you’re panicking. Cut that shit out. You’ll get out of here. Red light. Keep going. And keep your eyes open. If it’s anything like the one at the entrance, you could miss it. His neck ached when he tried to lift his head clear of the track and he stopped, letting his head drop back, blinking as sweat rolled into his eyes once more. His vision cleared and he spotted a dull red glow in the darkness. Thank Christ. He kicked his feet down hard and the glow became brighter. The trolley gathered speed and a single red bulb came into focus. His breathing was ragged as he pushed the final yards, then slid to a stop underneath the light and saw the exit hatch above. He stretched an arm up to the hatch.
Okay. Get the hell out of here. He looked at the hatch. There was no handle. How the…? No, it has to be powered. A red and black cable was pinned to the side of the hatch. That’s got to be the electrical feed. So where’s the switch? Junction boxes and switches were fixed above his head. Got to be one of them. He saw paper labels with faded handwriting. I can’t read that shit.
He slid his hand into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his iPhone. He switched the torch on and held it above his head, craning his neck to read. What the hell does that say? He placed a finger on the first switch. Don’t touch anything, Zac said. Yeah, like I got a choice. Holding his breath, he flicked the first switch. Nothing happened. Okay, not that one. Flicking it back, he placed his finger on the second switch and pushed down. Nothing. Shit, it’s got to be one of these. He pushed the third switch and the light shut off.
Fuck! He tightened the grip on his iPhone but it slipped from his wet hand and bounced off his face. He tried to grab it but missed and he heard the phone tumble to the bottom of the pipe. His breathing became ragged. Focus. Be cool. Find the switch. Close your eyes and go slow. His fingers traced the edge of the hatch, then back towards the bank of switches. His trembling fingers found the third switch and pushed up. The red light flickered into life. I don’t care who gets alerted, I’m getting the fuck out of here. He clawed at the switches and the sound of a metal solenoid slamming back echoed along the pipe. He lifted his arm and shoved at the hatch. It swung back silently, revealing nothing but darkness. He sat up and made a grab for the edge. No, you need the phone. He pushed his hand down, but it was useless. Shit. He slid the trolley back, then used the space to arch his arms backwards and drag his fingers across the rails until he found the phone. Get out.
He grabbed the edge of the hatch and hauled himself up. The faint red light glowed out from the pipe and disappeared into darkness. He stood on the trolley and groped around, feeling nothing but cold metal. Pushing out a hand into the darkness to check the height clearance, he slowly shuffled out onto the edge of the hatch.
He switched on the iPhone’s torch again. Around him he could see brick walls in a twelve foot square. He looked down at the pipe. It stretched ten feet across and three quarters of it was buried in the earth. Jesus, it’s massive. They could have made the inner pipe a bit bigger. Near one end of the pipe, where it disappeared through a brick wall, he saw a larger metal plate studded with bolts the size of his fist. That’ll be the sewer access hatch. He pictured the map in his head. The pipe runs south of the Embassy. He turned to face a wall of bricks. In the middle was a section of lighter bricks, lined with a pale-colored mortar. That’s the one. How the hell am I going to get through that?
He slid down the pipe and stood before the wall, running his fingers along the bricks, then gave one a push. It moved. He pushed harder. The other end of the brick slid out. The thick mortar crumbled in his fingers. He looked up and saw a wide stone joist above the bricks. That’s what’s taking
the weight. These bricks sure as shit won’t. Pulling the pocketknife from his pants, he slid it between the gap, levering the brick aside. They’re not fixed. He picked up a piece of mortar and it instantly disintegrated. What the hell is this stuff? He tugged two bricks towards him and the surrounding mortar powdered as they dropped onto the soft earth. Whatever it is, it’s just for show. Before him he saw a wall of gray stone. He pushed it with his finger and it moved to the touch. That’s just plaster. I could punch right through. He closed his eyes and listened for a moment, but could only hear water flowing in the sewage pipe. He pushed the tip of the knife into the plaster and twisted it around until the tip broke through, then held up the iPhone and peered through the hole.
Chapter 19
The guardhouse stretched across half the street and armed guards stood either side, machine pistols cradled in their arms. Kirsty stepped towards the booth, relieved that she was off the main road. She noticed more guards to the side, tooled up with heavier assault rifles and combat vests. Just what I don’t want, she thought, swinging the bag in her hand, but exactly what I need to keep those psychos off my back.
Behind a red and white horizontal pole, steel barriers covered in studded metal teeth rose up out of the road. She watched a blacked-out stretch Mercedes drive up and the barrier slide into the ground to let it through. She approached the booth and stood before the low window. “Hi, I need to visit the Russian Embassy,” she said, rolling out the Welsh vowels.
The guard glanced at the sleeve of gothic tattoos covering her arm. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I checked the website and it said just to visit if I was applying for a passport for residency.”
“You’re applying for a passport? With that accent?”
She smiled. “Absolutely! My father was Russian so I qualify, I hope. I’ll be honest, it’s a career move. Sick of bloody Cardiff, I am. And I can go over there and take care of him. He’s not too well at the moment.”
“Can I see what’s in the bag?”
“Of course.” She lifted the bag up onto a ledge facing the window and took out her iPad and phone and a large can of hairspray.
