by Mark Leggatt
The security guard held up the bag to check that it was empty. “What’s in there?” he said, pointing to a long cardboard tube she’d left in the bag.
“Souvenir. He wants a map of the London Underground. He’s crazy about maps. I hope MI5 won’t be too bothered about that.”
The guard popped both ends from the tube and peered into it, then passed everything through a scanner. “How come your father is Russian?”
Kirsty shrugged. “He was a sailor. A lover in every port. But he said the prettiest girls were from Wales,” she smiled at the guard. “He didn’t desert us. He kept in touch while he was at sea. Or at least we think that’s where he was.”
The guard repacked her bag. “ID?”
Kirsty took out her purse and pushed over a driving license.
“Russian Embassy is first on the left.” The guard picked up a phone. “I’ll let them know you’re coming.” He smiled and handed back her ID. “My father was in the army. Never saw him either. Good luck.”
“Thanks, mate.” She swung the bag over her shoulder and stepped through the gate. To her left she saw the high windows and opulent 19th century facade of the Russian Embassy and two uniformed guards watching her through the high railings. She turned into the entrance, past a manicured garden and approached the front door. One of the guards listened to his radio, stepping aside as she approached.
Let’s make this fast, she thought. She walked through a polished stone archway and stood before a wide hall, feeling the chill of air-conditioning envelop her. Around the hall, several corridors were cordoned off and directly ahead stood an ornate reception desk where a young woman with a severe expression examined her as she approached. She was the only visitor and several guards turned towards her. I need a distraction, she thought, or someone is going to start asking questions. And the last thing I want to do is talk to that snooty bitch.
She took her phone from the bag, set it to silent, then talked cheerily as she held it to her head. “Hi? Yeah, I’m at the embassy. What? Okay, I’ll hold.” She smiled at the receptionist and held up a hand. She stood for a moment looking up at the decor and the row of oil paintings hanging on one wall. A bulky air-conditioning unit mounted high on the roof clunked and whirred into life. Good cover, she thought, the noisier the better.
She spotted a cable on the wall and traced it to a detector on the roof. No, that’s a smoke detector. I need something more modern than that. She slowly gazed around and found another cable emerging from a corridor, pinned high on the wall beside the ornate plaster cornice, leading to a small white plastic box fixed above the paintings. Got it. Ionization detector.
There was a row of chairs set against the wall under the paintings. She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the screen, then spoke into it again. “Are you still there? Yeah, well ask them to hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
Keeping the phone pressed between her shoulder and cheek, she crossed the hall and sat on a chair directly underneath the detector. She placed her bag beside her, popped the top from the tube, rested it vertically against her shoulder and placed one end in her bag. She rummaged around in the bottom of the bag and pulled the plastic cap from the other end of the tube. “Yeah, I’m still here. How long’s this going to take?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a guard moving towards her. She kept her hand in the bag and wriggled on the seat to get comfortable, spreading her knees apart and allowing her dress to ride up.
As the guard approached she brought her knees together quickly and flashed him a look.
The guard turned away, crossed the hall and sat down opposite her.
Nothing to see here, my friend. Just a girl trying to do too many things at once. She lifted up one side of her bag and grabbed the can of hairspray, holding it deep in the bag and out of sight. She pushed the nozzle into the bottom of the map tube. “Yeah, I’m still here.” Keeping the phone pressed to her cheek, she adjusted the tube where it rested against her shoulder and pointed the end towards the roof. She pressed the button on the can and heard the hiss as the spray ascended through the tube. “I’ve been hanging on for ages. Just make it quick, will you?” Her eyes began to sting as some spray drifted down from the top of the tube and her fingers began to freeze with the residue. She flicked her eyes upwards to the ionization detector. Jesus, she thought, this better bloody work.
The security guard stood up.
*
Montrose gave his eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness and then stepped back, but no light emerged from the tiny hole. It’s got to be a cellar. He brought up the map on his iPhone. The screen dazzled him in the darkness. Get a good look then shut it down, or I won’t be able to see a goddamn thing. The plan showed the sewer pipe and three small rooms, linked by a corridor. He shut off the phone and eased out another brick. It came away easily in his hand. Whoever built this knew what they were doing. He pulled out a handful of bricks and they tumbled to the damp earth at his feet. As soon as the hole was big enough he stuck his head through and pressed his ear against the plaster. There was nothing.
He stuck the tip of his knife into the hole and twisted it around. The plaster looked about half an inch thick. Being subtle isn’t going to work. And if they find a fucking big hole, they’ll go straight for the pipe. He turned and shone the torch along the length of the pipe, focusing on the larger bolted hatch at the far end. I bet the Brits heard every word, the devious bastards. Shit, they can probably hear me now. Yeah and do what? They’re not gonna knock on the door of the Russian Embassy and ask if they can have a quick look in their basement. But if the Russians come after me… He looked at the open hatch and flicked the torch back towards the sewer hatch. Yeah. That’s it. He bent down and picked up a brick, then clambered up to straddle the pipe beside the sewer hatch.
He ground the edge of the brick against each of the bolts in turn, exposing a sliver of metal. He brushed away the brick dust, slid off the pipe and shone his torch on his handiwork. Anyone sees that and they’ll just think I could have used a better wrench. He stood before the wall and picked up another brick, weighing it in his hands. No. Take it easy. You have no idea what’s behind that plaster. He dropped the brick and pushed the knife into the plaster once more, turning it around until he had a hole the size of a dime. He blew away the plaster dust, squeezed his head past the bricks and pressed his eye against the hole.
Chapter 20
An alarm screamed behind the wall and the shock jolted through him like electricity. His head jerked up and cracked against the stone and he tumbled back, stumbling over the pile of bricks. He scrambled to his feet and made a lunge for the open hatch, but his hand slipped on the cold metal and his face smacked into the pipe. He bounced off and rolled to the side to steady himself, then grabbed the edge of the hatch. He tensed, preparing to launch himself forward, but stopped.
Holy shit. She’s done it. He leaned against the pipe, listening to the pulsing of the alarm which seemed to vibrate through his body. That’s a fire alarm. It worked.
He brought up the torch on his iPhone. The beam punched through the brick dust hanging in the air. Do it. Before they wise up. He grabbed a brick from the pile at his feet and ran towards the wall, smashing it into the plaster. It spidered and cracked and he ripped the pieces away, shining the torch through the hole. In front of him were two metal sheets. What the...? Shit. Filing cabinets. He leaned forward and pushed hard, his sneakers slipping on the loose bricks and earth. His dusty hands slid on the metal, but it began to move and he heard the cabinet base scraping across the floor. Christ, that’s heavy. He tried the other and it moved easily, until it turned and jammed against the first cabinet. This isn’t going to work. I’ll be here all day. He stepped back and shone the torch on the top of the cabinets. I’m going over.
He tore at the bricks above him, tossing them behind him, hearing them bounce off the pipe. That’ll deafen a few Brits. He planted his
feet firmly, leaned back and punched his fist through the plaster using the edge of a brick. More. Wide enough for shoulders. Grabbing a row of bricks with both hands, he threw himself backwards. The whole section collapsed, exposing the stone lintel above his head and he jumped out of the way as bricks tumbled down around him. Jeez don’t bring the whole lot down. The alarm seemed to pulsate through his head. He tore at the bricks on one side, ripped back the plaster and flashed the torch. He could see over the filing cabinets into the darkness beyond where the torch reflected off another wall. Do it. He climbed up the pile of bricks and shoved an arm through the hole, reaching over to grip the front edge of the first filing cabinet. He hauled himself through, his shoulders scraping the sides of the hole and his ribs jammed against the edge of the cabinets. He moved forward slowly, then stopped and shone the iPhone into the room. Don’t mess around. Head first. He reached out a hand to break his fall, then tipped his body over the edge and tumbled to the floor. His shoulder cracked into the concrete and he rolled to the side, then scrambled to his knees and brought up the torch.
A stack of cardboard filing boxes lined the far wall and to his right he saw a thick steel door. This is it. This is a cell. He swept the torch behind him. Above the cabinets, on the wall he had come through, was smooth white plaster. I hope the Brits didn’t... Never mind. Get going. He flashed the beam back to the far wall and crept forward. The wall was whitewashed rough stone and he could see several indentations under the paint. They must have painted the walls since Warrender was here.
He hauled away at the cardboard boxes on the floor then held the iPhone close to the wall and shone it upwards to highlight the relief of the indentations. The wall was covered in dents and scratches, but nothing stood out as a name. He arced the torch beam higher up the wall. Zac said Furstenberg was well over seven feet tall. Hell, if I was that tall, I’d write it high just to piss them off. Near the top was a line of indentations. Sliding the phone closer, he could make out the words. HEINZ ROSTERG. Below was a number that was too indistinct to make it out, then another row of letters. He held the torch closer. GEFOLTERT. What is that? A rank? No, I know that word. My grandfather used it often enough when he told me about the Nazis. Tortured. That’s what it means. So it was true.
He stepped back and scanned the wall once more, but could see nothing. Okay, not this one. He shone the torch towards the door. There’s no handle. He stood open-mouthed for a moment and let out a nervous laugh. Of course there’s no fucking handle. It’s a cell.
At the bottom of the door was a rectangular hole, covered by a metal sheet on the exterior. For food. He knelt and grabbed the top edge and let his body fall backwards. Sweet Jesus, don’t be locked. The door swung open and he toppled backwards onto the concrete. Yeah, about time I had a break. Next cell.
He stuck his head out of the door. Above him an alarm flashed red and screamed in his ears. The corridor was empty. He darted out and leaned on the handle of the adjacent door. The handle didn’t move but the door swung open and he fell into darkness.
He swung the cell door closed and shone the torch around. More cardboard boxes lined the floor and wooden chairs were stacked haphazardly against the walls. Dammit! It’ll take me ages to move this shit. Pick a wall. He stuck his hand through the chair legs and held up the iPhone. Nothing. He took a step back, jammed the phone between the chairs again and saw the first indentations behind the paint. Go high. Shadows picked out the bold lettering, each about two inches high.
FURSTENBERG, H.T. GEFOTTENT. MEINE EHRE HEIßT TREUE.
Montrose stood staring it for a moment and the words came back to him. Meine ehre heißt treue. My honor is my loyalty. The motto of the Waffen SS.
The phone trembled in his hand and the shadowed letters danced on the wall. At the edge of the beam of light he saw more words below, carved in shallow, hurried writing. He edged the torch closer and read until the words seared into his brain.
GEFOTTENT - RW - MILCHMANN
He stood back. Tortured. Roger Warrender. Milkman. For a moment, he couldn’t hear the alarm as he stared at the wall. That’s why he wrote it under Furstenberg’s name. They’d think it was German.
*
The technician spun around in his chair. “Sir! We’ve cracked the intruder’s laptop.”
Arkangel tried not to run as he hurried towards the desk. The technician pointed to the screen. “The team in Cambridge is still trying to locate the exact spot, but we can see what he sees.”
“What about his laptop camera?”
“His camera?”
“Think clearly, you idiot. You get a photo of him, then pass it onto the team.”
“I have it,” said another technician next to him.
On the screen was the photo of an unshaven young man in a Metallica T-shirt, his hair falling over dark, soft eyes.
“Get that to the team.” Arkangel turned back to the first screen. “What the hell is that?”
“He’s looking at some sort of map, sir. Bringing it up now.”
“A map?” Arkangel leaned over to the screen as the image flashed up, showing plans of a building, with thick red lines bordering the walls. “Can you show me more?”
“We don’t have control, sir, we can only see what he sees. I’m working on it.” The map on the screen zoomed out and Arkangel saw an address written at the bottom corner.
7 Kensington Palace Gardens. Duct Map Plan Lower Ground.
“My God, that’s… freeze that image!” He leaned forward and traced the red line with his finger, along the building and down the dotted line piercing the wall. “What the hell is that?”
The technician shook his head. “It looks like pipe work. What should I do, sir?”
“Shut up.” Arkangel stepped back and pressed his hands to his face. Whoever they were, they had the first two passwords. There could only be one reason why they would attempt to break through those walls. He turned to the other side of the room and pointed to a technician. “How long to the activation password?”
“Perhaps another hour, sir.”
“Too long. Get Kutuzov on the phone. Now!”
“Where is he, sir?”
Arkangel stared at the address on the screen. “The Russian Embassy.”
*
The fire alarm stopped. He could hear himself breathing and feel the blood pumping in his neck. Get out of here. He ran to the door and stuck his head out. Clear. He slid through and was running to the first cell when he saw the blinking light in the top corner of the corridor. CCTV. He froze. Oh, fuck. The iPhone almost slipped out of his sweaty palm, but he pushed it to his chest and raced through the cell door, slamming it behind him.
He launched himself at the cabinets, pushing them back against the wall, then picked up two cardboard boxes and threw them on top. Might buy me a few seconds. If they’re idiots. Clambering up onto the cabinets, he maneuvered his body, feet first, into the hole and grabbed the cardboard boxes as he edged backwards. The rear edge of the cabinets dug into his ribs. His legs dangled behind him, but there was no foothold. Gravity took over and he raked his ribs along the back edge of the cabinet as he dropped through the hole, cracking his head off the stone lintel and landing on the pile of bricks. He sat stunned for a moment, then reached up and pulled the cardboard boxes back towards him, covering the hole.
He turned, stumbled over the bricks and threw himself onto the pipe, gripping the edge of the hatch and hauling himself up. He swung his legs over and dropped down. His feet hit the trolley and he held onto the edge as it slipped forward. He steadied his feet and grabbed hold of the hatch cover, lowering himself down. The hatch cover slammed shut and the solenoid lock clunked home. He stretched up his arms and gave the cover a shove. It didn’t move. Fuck you, Ivan. Work that one out.
He shuffled his torso until his head was hanging over the back of the trolley, then steadied his legs and pushed hard. The tr
olley shot forward. He instinctively looked back down the pipe, but it was black and his nose grazed the roof of the pipe. He dropped his head back. Wait for the next red light. Get some speed up.
The sound of spinning wheels echoed along the pipe. He tried to visualize the map in his head. Fifty meters. Curve to the left. Then one hundred meters in a straight run. Don’t think about it. Do it. His ribs ached where the cabinets had raked them and sweat stung his torn skin. Keep going. The muscles in his legs began to cramp and he cracked his knee off the roof of the pipe. He gasped in pain and his cramped thigh muscle began to spasm. Suck it up. His vision blurred as sweat rolled back into his eyes. I have to be able to see that light. The trolley rolled to a halt and he maneuvered his arm forwards to wipe his eyes. The air felt thick in his throat. He flexed his legs and placed his feet down to push when a low booming sound echoed through the pipe.
He pulled his hand from his face. What the fuck was that? Vibrations ran up the pipe and a loud crack echoed past his head. Shit. They’re trying to break the hatch. His body jerked in panic. He cracked his head off the roof and snagged his T-shirt on a cable tray. No. They’re trying to break the pipe. He shoved his arms forward and pushed his legs down, his sneakers slipping on the floor. I’m surrounded by sewer water. They smash that pipe and… Rapid hammering sounded, growing in speed, punching through the air and a metallic wall of noise rang in his ears as the metal shuddered above his head.
*
Kirsty elbowed her way into the middle of the crowd as they were herded towards the front door and out into the garden. She spotted a black Range Rover blocking the road beyond the guardhouse where the guards stood with their machine pistols raised. The passenger advanced, holding up his ID. She could hear an argument erupt. The shaven-headed driver wore Aviator Ray-Bans, had both hands grasping the top of the wheel and was revving the engine.
People pushed past her onto the road and an embassy guard shoved her through the gates. Kirsty looked along to the other end of the street. The second gatehouse was hidden by the trees, but she knew more Range Rovers would be waiting. She kept her head low and joined a group of people standing by the side of the road. For a split second she thought about turning around and demanding political asylum, but knew Warrender had tried that. It hadn’t worked out. She would have the same fate.
