The Elgin Deceptions (Sunken City Capers Book 2)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  But which train station? There are two equidistant from Parliament Hill, either of which could’ve been where the contact was headed when they left.

  I come out on the western edge of Parliament Hill. Brick apartment buildings and townhomes line the edge of the park behind a brick fence. Several back yards are dotted with the glass tops of greenhouses.

  There isn’t time to dither so I listen to my instincts and continue on the trail on the edge of the park moving south.

  The cold air is starting to bite into my cheeks. I wrap my arms closer to my body as I hurry along, keeping an eye out for the contact.

  As I near the southern tip of the park and the entry point back into the urban sprawl, I see the contact’s diminutive form moving west toward me on the southern edge of the Heath.

  Puo was right. It’s Shǐ.

  * * *

  So now the real question is: was Liáng asking Shǐ out, or was Shǐ asking Liáng out? Or have I completely missed the mark and it was about something completely different (but I seriously doubt it). And then, why do I care?

  The Hampstead Heath Overground station was hastily expanded several times after the mega-quake hit, from a small regional stop to a main station that serviced the edge of the Sea of London and connected the new coastline back to the rest of England to the north. It’s still technically an Overground station even though the rail lines are below street level and pass through several underground tunnels at points.

  Shǐ enters the station from the south street entrance for the trains moving north. Ne walks purposefully into the brick building and through the black-and-metal pay turnstiles.

  I’ve been following at a comfortable pace but stop briefly before entering the station, watching for my opportunity, which doesn’t take long.

  A college-aged woman carrying her weight in her thighs and stomach comes out of the station looking frustrated. She’s wearing tight jeans and a black hoody, and carries a black shopper-style purse with red straps that she just shoved her metro-chip into the inside pocket of. She then helpfully shifts the purse, whose design is intentionally open at the top, behind her as she’s walking away.

  The metro-chips are supposed to be wireless, but don’t always work great. All I needed to wait for was someone to have problems with their metro-chip and take them out to swipe right next to the reader to reveal where they kept it. Thanks frustrated college girl. Or should I thank the metro-chip company for a subpar product?

  I cross the street but keep my head turned away, focusing down at the end of the street and keeping college girl in my peripheral vision.

  “Hey!” she startles as I bump hard into her and slip her white metro-chip out of the inside pocket and slide it up my sleeve. “Watch where you’re going.”

  “Sorry,” I say apologetically in a French Accent. “Is zis ‘ampstead Station?”

  “Yeah,” she says still annoyed with me, “can’t ya read?”

  “Not well. Sorry.” I make off after that, lest annoyed college girl decides to try and be more helpful.

  I jog into the station like I’m late and use my body to conceal my new metro-chip from the direction I just left college-aged woman behind.

  Once I’m through the turnstile, the brick station walls with yellowing paper maps hung on them abruptly switch to a modern look of clear and fogged glass walls with embedded electronic displays of maps and directions.

  The hasty expansion after the mega-quake gives the station a haphazard feel, as the design isn’t consistent and switches off in places.

  I find myself in a central holding room where multiple exits head off depending on where you’re going. The station is at the end of the Overground line, but there’s still a path back to the other platform to the left.

  I head down the stairs to the platform that services the northbound trains, making my way slowly and cautiously in case Shǐ doubles back, or stopped off in the bathroom.

  The platform is a dirty concrete slab with scuffed up and fading paint. The metal-and-dirt stink of the railways is offset by the fresh air from the open air above. The cold air greets me as I step out of the stairwell.

  The 11:10 morning bullet train to Northampton is boarding and leaving in eight minutes.

  I don’t see Shǐ on the platform anywhere so I hurry to the back of the red-capped silver train and step on to look for nem. I can always get off before it leaves if ne’s not on it; but I can’t get on it once it leaves.

  The back railcars of the train are the coach sections. It’s unlikely Shǐ would ride here, but then I don’t know what kind of budget ne’s on—Puo and I are burning through an alarming amount of capital.

  People are stowing their bags and looking for seats, clogging up the narrow walkway. It takes a supreme amount of self-control not to be lifting wallets and other valuable goodies as I rudely squeeze by. Well—it’d be rude in the United States where our personal buffer space is more reasonable; in Europe where people are packed nut-to-butt, it’s not as rude. Quite useful for pickpockets in retrospect.

  No sign of Shǐ yet as I exit the fifth coach railcar and enter the first of two service railcars that are marked by a bar running down the long side of the railcar, standing room only. There’s only a smattering of people here, and a quick inventory reveals Shǐ isn’t a morning drinker.

  Nor is ne in the next service railcar which includes two columns of cafeteria-style seating.

  The first class railcars are beyond. I check through the window between the railcars before entering. Most of the seats are facing forward, but I don’t want Shǐ to see me.

  The first class cabin is half-full; the seats are wider, spaced farther apart. Each seating section has it’s own white plastic table. A couple of the sections have the chairs reversed to make a group of four.

  Shǐ’s sitting up near the front. Near the front exit.

  I text Puo my situation, sit in the back seat and take out my pocket tablet to pretend to read in case ne bolts.

  * * *

  Why Northampton? I can’t stop thinking.

  It’s not exactly a hopping spot. There are other closer locations to Hampstead that fit that smaller-city feel.

  It just doesn’t feel right to me.

  The train doors close with a pneumatic hiss and a pleasantly generic female voice announces the doors closing and to “mind the gap.”

  The train gives a deep chugging sound followed almost immediately by the train levitating an inch or so over the magnetic tracks. It’s a small amount to levitate but, believe me, you feel it every time.

  The train moves forward slowly, but smoothly, the platform sliding by behind us.

  We start to pick up speed once we’re clear of the platform for the eighteen-minute journey to Northampton.

  But something still doesn’t feel right. I feel it in my gut. Something’s off. Something in front of me is not the way it should be; it’s like one of those games were you pick what’s different between two pictures.

  It doesn’t take long for me to zero in on two British guys sitting next to each other halfway up the train from me. They’re alternating their gaze between their tablets (which they’re not playing with at the appropriate cadence) and Shǐ.

  They’re dressed in nice jeans, buttoned shirts. Both still have their coats on, but unzipped.

  Shǐ is either unaware of them, or much more practiced at being covert.

  After several minutes, the British man on the aisle seat gets up and walks back toward me and the service car. He has a crisply trimmed black beard with wisps of silver in it, and a narrow nose. His brown leather shoes are scuffed on the inside of the toes as if he shoves his foot into doors to stop them from closing.

  As he passes, his thin black jacket flaps open and I see the top of a rectangular badge holder in his inside pocket.

  He’s a cop of some kind. Following Shǐ.

  I studiously stare at my tablet that I’m pretending to read as he passes. His cologne washes over me. It’s muskier than Winn�
�s, I can’t stop myself from thinking. Winn’s had a more spicy, woody element—

  The memory of Winn’s cologne brings back a powerful memory of us together in the basement of the Skyline Hotel back in the Seattle Isles after the solid-state job. When the rush of the completed job and being alone led to—

  The full memory hits me all at once. His warm wet skin. The cold air. The smell of rubber from the scuba suits.

  Shit. I try to shake the memory off, my heart beating rapidly.

  I get up to follow the cop. His jacket is open, and the badge is visible. I can make that lift; figure out who exactly is following Shǐ, and is possibly onto Puo and me.

  Be careful.

  Fucking Puo.

  I am not being reckless. I can make this lift.

  The cop is just on the other side of the doors out of first class in the service railcar with all the tables. He’s on his comm-link—likely calling ahead.

  I walk past him, making my way toward the railcar with the bar to get a drink. I’ll make the lift on the return trip, spill the drink near him as a distraction.

  I pass through into the second service railcar and walk up to the bar and order some club soda and cranberry juice, keeping the cop visible through the windows between the railcars.

  I can make this lift. The cop is still on his communicator.

  But once he realizes his badge is gone they’re going to pull any available video. They’ll zero in on me as suspect number one causing a disturbance.

  I dig into the bottom of my messenger bag and pull out my digi-scrambler, a single-pearl necklace on a thin metal chain. A gift from Winn.

  The bartender plops my small plastic cup filled with carbonated water colored red on the bar in front of me.

  The pearl from the necklace is oblong, more flat than round. Cold from being in my bag. It shimmers blue as I stare it.

  It was early in the morning when Winn gave it to me. Still dark out. Our bedroom was cold from running the air conditioning in the summer just after we moved to the Seattle Isles. He brushed my hair back and whispered my name to wake me up. The day-old scent of his cologne enveloped me. His warmness comforted me. He told me he wanted me to wear something special. There was no reason for the gift. No other reason than he wanted to.

  I take a deep breath and slip it on, working the clasp with a small shake in my hand. There was a time I never took it off. I press the pearl along the sides activating the digi-scrambler.

  I’m not being reckless. Am I?

  No. I can make this lift.

  I realize I’ve never left the house without the necklace since Winn left. I’ve never gone to bed without it near me. But the necklace is useful. That’s why I carry it. Right?

  I take a sip of my drink. The carbonation tickles my tongue, the cranberry is sweet but not strong. Perspiration beads on the side of the plastic glass.

  Be careful.

  Is Puo really that worried about me? He’s never been worried about me like this before. He was practically frantic in my bedroom yelling at me after the squiddie incident.

  Winn really was different. Even Puo knew it. Puo probably knew how I felt about him before I did.

  Oh, God. This is not the time for this.

  I pick up my plastic glass to take another sip to steady myself, but my hand shakes so bad I set it back down. How am I going to make a lift with a tremor in my hand?

  The lift. Shǐ. The British Museum.

  I brush the bangs out of my eyes—just like Winn did that morning.

  What if he really is gone for good?

  It all comes crashing down on me. The situation I’m in. The loss of Winn. I feel paralyzed. Like I can’t catch my breath. Like no matter how hard I run, I’ll never get away. Even standing still, my heart is racing so hard that it’s ready to break through my ribcage and flop on the bar for everyone to see.

  This can’t be happening right now.

  Shǐ can’t see me. The cops following nir can’t learn of me.

  What if that really was Winn at the The Red Swan—?

  Oh, God. What is happening to me?

  I force myself to breath slowly, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth.

  I have to get out of here. This was a bad idea. Puo was right.

  I sloppily drink the last of the carbonated cranberry juice and try to think of how to get out of this mess.

  The pleasant generic female’s voice announces our impending arrival in two minutes.

  How long have I been here at the bar?

  I look back toward where the cop should’ve been. He’s gone.

  I wander forward into the next car, feeling like a ghost, like watching through someone else’s body. The train feels like a dream sliding by me. I’m aware of pounding in my neck. Sweat slicks my skin.

  The train is pulling into the station.

  Shǐ is gone. So are the two cops tailing nem.

  Where the hell did they go? The train hasn’t even stopped.

  I don’t even care anymore. I need to get out of here.

  The air is stale here. Filtered. Dry. My mouth is parched. Why is the air so stale? The train feels so small, the walls so tight, like I won’t be able to raise my arms up. The ceiling feels like it’s breathing down my neck. The people crowding around me at the exit are all violating me. Just give me some space!

  The train comes to stop. It drops down onto the tracks.

  The doors are taking forever to open.

  My heart pounds in my chest.

  The doors finally hiss open.

  Strong scents from the station assault me: the overpowering scent of curry from the Indian restaurant across from me, the smell of baking bread from the cafe next to it, people smoking, the smell of asphalt from the platform. Over-piled trash in the trash bins.

  I think I might vomit.

  I stumble out of the tiny train, keeping my head down and looking for a place to sit down. My legs are jittery.

  I make my way over to one of the metal benches facing the train and nearly collapse onto it.

  The metal is cold against the back of my legs. I sit with my head in my hands, leaning forward.

  Breathing. Just breathing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT’S EARLY afternoon as I blow through the dark-orange front door into the house, locking it shut behind me.

  I sat on that metal bench in Northampton for an indeterminate amount of time. But slowly, my thoughts turned from panic and flagging down medical help to coming up with a plan to get me back to the house in Hampstead.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. But I do know that one of the first coherent thoughts I had was this: This is Puo’s fault. It was a galvanizing thought, immediately ruling out calling him for help.

  I used college-aged girl’s metro-chip again and took the train back to Hampstead. The whole way back I continued to improve, the cause and object of my ire coming into laser-like focus.

  The house has a settled-in feeling for the afternoon. No movement or lights on.

  I walk down into the basement to find Puo sitting at his system and Liáng standing behind him.

  “Liáng,” I say, “get out of here. I need to talk to Puo.”

  Liáng raises his head up from staring at the screens to regard me. What he doesn’t do is make like he’s going to listen and leave.

  Fine.

  “Puo,” I command, “with me then.”

  “Does this—?” Liáng starts to ask.

  “No,” I snap. “Now, Puo!”

  Puo locks his system and gets up, studying me, alarm in his eyes.

  We head upstairs.

  Liáng follows.

  “Go away,” I say to Liáng, stopping at the top of the stairs.

  “What is going on?” Liáng asks suspiciously.

  “I followed Shǐ,” I say in an angry flash of inspiration. “Chang’ans my ass.”

  Liáng’s face gives him away. He knows the truth—whatever that happens to be.

  “P
uo,” I say, not taking my eyes off of Liáng, “outside.”

  All three of us walk to the back door. I open it and motion for Liáng to go first.

  The goob falls for it, and I shut the door behind him and lock him out there.

  “Let me in!” Liáng yells through the door, trying the doorknob.

  “Learn to pick a lock,” I answer right back.

  I lead Puo back down to the basement.

  “What’s going—?” Puo starts to ask.

  “You asshole!” I swear at him. “Be careful? What the fuck was that!”

  “Isa,” Puo says, visibly shocked at how angry I am, “What is going on?”

  “I freaked out, Puo! Your stupid warning got into my head and fucking crippled me. Next time keep that shit to yourself—!”

  “Are you okay?” Puo asks, studying me intently.

  “Yes, I’m okay! Now!”

  “Then what happened?” Puo asks.

  “I was on the train, following Shǐ, ready to make a lift on the two cop/agent types also following Shǐ—”

  “There were agents following nem? Who did they work for?”

  “I don’t know, Puo! Your stupid warning started making me second-guess myself—”

  “Stop yelling at me!” Puo roars over me. “I am on your side!”

  “Then what was with the ‘be careful’ shit? You’ve never said that before.”

  “Yes, I have—!”

  “Not like that! What the fuck was that?”

  Puo sidesteps the question and instead asks, forcing himself to be calm, “What were you doing when you freaked out?”

  Technically it was a panic attack—at least, that’s what the internet informed me it was on the way home. “I was putting on the digi-scrambler, getting ready to make the lift.”

  “Where you thinking of … ?” Puo dances around his name, visibly unsure of how I might react.

  “Winn?” I ask. “It’s okay to say his name, Puo,” I say sullenly, and then answer his question. “And maybe.”