by Tom Marcus
As soon as I found the hairpin, I pushed the bookshelf aside and went to work. The padlocks were a bit rusty, and a couple of times I thought the hairpin was going to snap, but I kept at it, and after a couple of minutes I was in the little room with the trap door. Opening that was easy enough, but looking down into the black hole below, I felt a wave of dread that made me feel physically sick. I felt like someone who’d just pulled themselves out of a swimming pool full of sharks standing on the top board.
C’mon. Pull yourself together. Nothing but rats down there. And a few old bones.
And maybe a stash of one of the world’s deadliest toxins.
I took a deep breath and put one leg down the hole until I could feel one of the rungs of the ladder under my foot. I wasn’t going to try holding a match in one hand while I felt my way down, so the darkness was total. As if to compensate, my sense of smell instantly went into overdrive. Smoke, vomit, piss and week-old shit seemed to suddenly blossom in the stale air, but that must have been my imagination.
When my feet were finally on firm ground, I lit a match. The bad smells vanished as the walls of the chamber came to brief life in front of my eyes. I reckoned if the stuff was down here, it would be well hidden, somewhere deeper, so I didn’t bother looking around. I just needed to see where the doors to the passage were. The match went out and I walked carefully in the dark until I could touch the doors with my outstretched hand. I then lit another match and went to work on the lock.
Once I was in the passage, again I just went by feel. I took it slowly, keeping one hand pressed to the cold stone of the wall on my left, until I came to the door. The one that opened onto my cell. It was firmly padlocked, but something told me he wouldn’t have hidden anything there, so there was no point looking inside. Or was I just too much of a coward to go in?
I tried to clear my mind so I could think straight.
I was scared. The idea of being buried alive in that room still gave me nightmares. I knew as soon as I walked in, I’d be terrified of the door clanging shut behind me and the sound of the key securing the padlock. I couldn’t do it.
OK. But there’s no point coming all the way down here and not taking a look. If I lit a couple of matches, I’d be able to see enough without having to step through the door.
Deal?
Deal.
I slipped the hairpin into the lock and started twisting. My hand was shaking so much it almost slipped out of my fingers. The lock looked old enough; I just had to hope it wasn’t so old it was buggered up with rust. I pulled the hairpin out, took a breath and tried again. Better. The lock snapped open with a click. I pulled the door open. Inside was nothing but blackness. I fumbled three matches out of the box and struck them, holding the flame out at arm’s length. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but when I saw the room was empty, my knees went weak with relief. No ghosts. No phantoms. Not even the stool or the buckets. And the smell had gone. Martindale must have cleaned up. I took a step forward, my hand still holding firmly on to the edge of the door so it couldn’t swing shut behind me, and took one long last look around the walls before the matches sputtered out. Unless he’d buried them, the containers of ZX4, or whatever it was, weren’t here.
So did that mean they didn’t exist? Martindale had talked about the chambers and passages under the church as if they were a regular warren; perhaps there were more tunnels, more chambers I couldn’t see. Maybe the trapdoor in the little room next to the vestry wasn’t the only entrance to the maze. I realized it would take a proper team, with decent lights and digging tools, to really scope the place out. Maybe something that could detect traces of biological weapons, too. That thought made me shudder. The truth was, unless I struck lucky, there was no way of knowing what was stashed down here without bringing a fully kitted-out biohazard crew in, and I didn’t think even Mrs Allenby could conjure one of those out of thin air.
I stepped back and closed the door, snapping the padlock closed, then started feeling my way back along the passage. After a couple of paces I stopped in my tracks. Both times Martindale had led me through, we’d felt our way along the same wall, the one now on my right. With the hurricane lamp in his right hand, that had made sense coming in, but on the way out I now remembered he’d transferred the lamp to his left hand, leaving his right free to feel along the wall. Why? Why didn’t he want to touch the other wall? Or was it that he didn’t want me to?
I shifted to my left and started inching my way along, brushing the fingers of my left hand up and down the wall in a sweeping motion. I remembered counting the steps on the way in, in a vain attempt to make some sort of plan of the tunnels in my head. Ten steps: that meant the turn was just ahead and the passage would bend round to my right. But as I felt down, my fingers touched empty air. I knelt down and started feeling with both hands. There was a gap in the wall a couple of feet wide, starting about eighteen inches off the floor. I lit a match and peered in. It clearly extended for several yards, but the match flame couldn’t illuminate any further than that.
Only one thing for it, then. I put my head in and then my shoulders, then shuffled forward on my elbows until I could hoist my legs in after me. It was a tight squeeze but by rolling from side to side, I was able to push myself along. I stopped. What about getting back out again if I came to a dead end? I tried going backwards, pushing back with my elbows on the slippery stone. Not so easy. A lot slower. But doable. Then another thought hit me. What if the tunnel suddenly narrowed and I got stuck?
Shit. I felt my pulse quicken. This was worse than being shut up in that bloody torture chamber. In the inky blackness I had no way of telling how far the tunnel went in or what was waiting for me at the end. For all I knew I was about to go sliding head first into a medieval cesspit.
I took a moment to get my breathing under control. I had to decide. Chicken out and never know what was down here? Or push on and take my chances? In the end I decided to keep going; I’d taken enough chances just coming down here. I might as well keep pushing my luck until it ran out.
That was when I heard the voices.
48
Alan was sitting at his work station trying to knead the kinks out of his neck when his phone beeped. He looked at the message.
‘Jesus H fucking Christ.’
Mrs Allenby had just taken her coat from the stand by the door. ‘What is it?’
Alex and Ryan were in the kitchen area, waiting for the kettle to boil. They walked across to look over Alan’s shoulder.
‘That Jag – you know, with the dodgy number plate? I’ve just found out who it belongs to. Well, not who it belongs to, exactly, but—’
‘What are you talking about?’ Mrs Allenby said, putting her coat down on the back of a chair.
‘It’s the PM’s. There are two. That’s one of them.’
Mrs Allenby swivelled the chair around and sat down. ‘Are you sure?’
Alan nodded.
‘So it might not have been her in the car?’
‘Those vehicles are only used to ferry the PM around. If one of them is driving somewhere at three in the morning, then she’s in the back.’
Ryan was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘I was just making coffee, but I think I might need something stronger now,’ Alex said.
‘I think we all might,’ agreed Mrs Allenby, her hand on her cheek. ‘And there’s no question it’s . . .?’
‘No,’ Alan said. ‘I’ve looked at the footage maybe a dozen times. There’s no mistake.’
‘So the PM was visiting Viktor Shlovsky in the middle of the night,’ Alex said, almost laughing. ‘I’m still trying to get my head round it.’
‘Well, at least that explains why she didn’t want Shlovsky put under surveillance,’ Mrs Allenby said wryly.
‘But surely she can’t be part of . . .’ Alex’s voice trailed off, as if she couldn’t bring herself to actually say it.
‘Hold on a minute,’ Ryan said. ‘Alan, have you got
the log for that night?’
Alan reached for a thick A4 notepad. ‘Yep.’
‘Is there anything else, apart from the mystery Jag?’
Alan turned the pages. ‘Yeah, Shlovsky leaves at about ten thirty.’
‘With the full security detachment?’
‘Um, yeah, it looks like Titov was driving and Weston was riding shotgun.’
‘And when did they get back?’
Alan licked his finger and ran it down the page. ‘That’s funny. I haven’t got anything down here. I remember the feed was playing up a bit, so maybe we just missed them.’
‘Or maybe they didn’t come back, not until much later.’
‘But if the PM wasn’t meeting with Shlovsky, what was she doing there?’ Mrs Allenby asked.
‘Maybe she turned up unexpectedly. Maybe it was an emergency, and she couldn’t let Shlovsky know she was coming,’ Alex suggested.
Mrs Allenby looked horrified as the possibilities went through her head. ‘An emergency? What kind of emergency would bring the Prime Minister of Great Britain running to meet with a corrupt Russian oligarch in the middle of the night?’
‘If that was the case, if she found he wasn’t at home, then she’d just turn round and go straight home, wouldn’t you think?’ said Ryan. ‘No reason to hang around – in fact, the less time she’s there, the better.’
‘But the Jag didn’t leave for another hour,’ Alan said, looking at his notes.
‘So maybe she didn’t turn up on the off-chance at all,’ Alex said. ‘Maybe she knew Shlovsky wouldn’t be there. She came to see someone else.’
49
There were two of them, speaking in low voices, but all the tunnels and chambers under the church must have had an effect like some sort of whispering gallery: it sounded as if they were only a few feet away.
I pushed myself on a couple of yards, trying to keep the scraping sounds to a minimum: if I could hear them, then they could hear me. I stopped. The voices were louder now, so I was definitely getting nearer. But I still couldn’t hear what they were saying.
I moved forward carefully. After about ten yards I saw a flicker of light ahead of me and instinctively ducked, almost smacking my nose on the cold stone of the tunnel floor. I looked up slowly and the light was gone. Inching forward again, I reached a right-angled turn. That’s where the light was coming from.
Crammed into the tunnel like a hot dog sausage in a bun, I was completely vulnerable. If anyone saw me, I’d be totally at their mercy. But I wasn’t going to turn back now. On the other hand, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself if I could help it, so I slowed down to a snail’s pace as I wriggled forward until I was able to turn my head and look round the corner. Light danced across a wall but that was all I could see. The tunnel came to an abrupt end after three or four feet. I was guessing it came out near the top of some sort of room, and that’s where the voices were coming from. I could hear them quite distinctly now, but if I was going to see them, I was going to have to squeeze my torso into the right angle, leaving my legs behind in the main passage. Worth the risk? I didn’t have room to toss a coin, so I decided to go for it.
After a laborious few minutes of slow-motion crawling I was lying on my side, my legs jack-knifed behind me, with a partial view of another brick-lined cell. Two men were standing near the wall, looking down at something by their feet, but the only way I could get a glimpse of it was by sticking my head over the lip of the tunnel and I wasn’t about to do that.
‘This is the last one?’ It was Martindale.
‘Yes. That’s all of it. All there is.’ The second man spoke quickly, his voice clipped. It had a penetrating, parade-ground feel. He was wearing a blazer and a checked shirt, with what looked like a regimental tie.
Douglas Weston.
‘We’re very grateful,’ Martindale said.
Weston gave a sharp nod. ‘Don’t let us down. The future of this country is in your hands now.’
‘Please give your . . . associates our thanks,’ Martindale said. ‘We’ve been planning this a long time. But everything’s in place now. And with God’s help, nothing can go wrong.’
So that was it. It all suddenly made sense. That was why it was Weston and not Titov who had made contact with Martindale: Weston was a British Army officer from his upper-class accent to his spit-shined shoes. The perfect embodiment of the Establishment, with friends in high places who all shared Martindale’s vision of a purified Christian nation. Or, at least, that’s what Martindale had been led to believe.
So what was the stuff Weston had just handed over? If it was true that we’d held back some of our stock of ZX4 when we’d signed the BWC treaty, that would be about as top secret as it gets. If word got out, that would be enough to bring down the government and probably half the army top brass along with it. There’s no way a middle-ranking ex-army officer in the pay of a Russian billionaire would get a sniff of it.
So what was it? Something a bit less deadly but easier to get your hands on? Like anthrax, maybe? But then why tell Martindale it was ZX4?
Maybe if I listened a bit longer, I thought, I’d get another piece of the jigsaw. Then another thought struck me: I didn’t know how Martindale and Weston had accessed the room they were now in, but presumably when they were finished down there, Martindale would be coming back to the church. I needed to be safely tucked up in my little broom cupboard when he did.
I slowly pushed myself off the wall and started to shuffle backwards towards the main tunnel.
That was when I saw the rat.
He must have been creeping along ahead of me in the passageway and I’d been slowly boxing him in. When he ran out of road he had no choice but to hunker down and stay as still as he could. Which is why I hadn’t noticed him. But starting to move again had obviously spooked him. He was now silhouetted against the wall of the chamber, twitching like crazy, obviously trying to decide whether to stick or twist.
Just stay where you are, you silly fucker, I thought, and everything’ll be fine. I dragged myself back another foot or so.
See? I’m going away. Give me another five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.
I could see his beady little eyes fixed on mine as I inched further away. I was almost at the point of being able to pull my torso round the corner when he darted forward in a mad dash to squeeze past me, then changed his mind and scrambled back towards the end of the tunnel, stopping just short of the lip. The scraping sound of his feet against the stone seemed ridiculously loud. I stopped dead, holding my breath.
Down below, Martindale and Weston stopped dead, too.
‘Did you hear that?’ Weston asked. ‘Could anyone else be down here?’
‘No, it’s all totally secure. Only I have access.’ Martindale’s tone was soothing. For the first time, I almost felt myself warming to him.
‘Then what was that noise?’
‘We do get rats down here,’ Martindale said. ‘Big ones, sometimes.’
Weston grunted non-committally. ‘I haven’t seen any.’
Martindale didn’t say anything. I could almost feel Weston staring up at the hole in the wall.
‘Do you have a ladder or anything?’
‘There’s one leading down from the vestry to another section of the tunnels. I suppose we could go and get it.’
There was a pause. Weston was thinking about it. ‘What about those crates? A couple of them should do it, if they’ll take my weight. I just want to have a peek up there.’
‘Sure. If you like.’ I heard steps on the dirt floor as Martindale went to get them.
Fuck. What to do now? I couldn’t move, but if I stayed where I was, in less than a minute I’d be looking Weston in the eye.
The rat was still frozen to the spot. I decided there was only one thing for it. But I’d have to be quick. I slowly pushed my shoulders forward, then whipped out a hand and grabbed him. He went mental, squealing and biting like a demon, but I held on tight, then pulled my arm b
ack as far as I could and flung him towards the hole. He flew away from me, then seemed to stop, and I thought I’d blown it, before he suddenly dropped out of sight. There was a soft thump as he hit the floor, then I heard him skittering away.
There was an intake of breath from down below. Then a quick laugh. ‘Ha! You were right, it was a rat.’
‘Do you still want to take a look up there?’
‘No, no need. But no harm in double-checking everything’s secure upstairs, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course,’ Martindale said.
I closed my eyes and took a series of deep, slow breaths. I could feel my hand beginning to throb where the little fucker had bitten me. I just had to hope he hadn’t given me the plague or some other fucking disease that had been festering down here since old King Stephen’s time. Leprosy, say. I started to feel nauseous. I could feel the prickle of sweat on my forehead. Calm down, you stupid fucker. You can’t get ill that quick. Just take a breather and get your head straight.
But I couldn’t afford to take a breather. I needed to retrace my steps, locking everything behind me, before Martindale got back to the front of the church.
50
I pushed the bookshelf back as quietly as I could, hoping I’d managed to get it more or less in the right place. I remembered the crucifix was above it and a couple of inches to the left of dead centre, but it was too dark to really see and I wasn’t about to turn the light on to check. I crept out of the vestry and down the steps to my little cubbyhole. An old sleeping bag was laid out on the floor, just fitting into the cramped space. A tattered paperback Bible lay on the floor beside it, along with an empty china cup. I slipped into the sleeping bag without taking off my clothes and listened.
