Alicia Myles 2 - Crusader's Gold

by David Leadbeater

  The merc had a clear run at Crouch.

  Crouch knew it. As the man lunged he jerked the bus wildly, trying to throw him off balance. Suddenly the bus was swerving, tipping. Crouch had it up on two wheels as it swung around a corner. Everyone tumbled, shouting in surprise. Alicia thought she could smell burning rubber. Her vision tilted, the road ahead now slanted at an acute angle. The bus wrestled for traction, for stability. Still it tipped, almost at the point of no return, hurtling along and leaning over the oncoming cars. Alicia threw herself to the other side, hoping the weight might help, and saw Russo do the same. All she could do was hang on as physics played its part.

  Crouch feathered the throttle, turning the wheel minutely to give the bus every chance to right itself. The merc pressed against his shoulder as if glued. A moment passed when all balance was equal and even the slightest gust of wind might have sealed their fate. Then the scales tipped and the bus began to come back down onto all four wheels, slowly as if savoring the moment. The merc squealed as he fell away and crashed in a heap against the door. Crouch saw a great chance.

  Slapping at a button he hoped it would open the door whilst the bus was in motion. Luckily it did and the merc fell away into the night. Caitlyn clutched a pole to her chest as if she might never let go.

  Alicia tumbled as the bus crashed down onto all four tires, but so did the merc she fought. Crashing to the floor he kept hold of his gun, now several seats in front of her and closer to Caitlyn.

  “Don’t be an amateur!” she cried at the young woman. “Help us!”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose!”

  “Oh, that really helps.”

  Caitlyn now struggled to her feet, still waving the gun.

  Alicia leapt up onto the back of the first seat and jumped from row to row, heading toward the back of the bus, her footing firm and sure. The merc scrambled. Behind her, Russo slammed his opponent against the side window, shattering the glass in the overlarge pane. Despite a groan of agony the man still fought against Russo. Crouch roared past a dawdling Micra, much to the surprise and disgust of its occupants, and turned hard left onto Pall Mall. Alicia missed her step and crashed to the floor.

  “Oh, come on!”

  The merc gasped too, striking his head against a pole. Russo finished his opponent off with an elbow. Healey took advantage when Crouch’s driving caused his enemy to lose a pretty good chokehold and ended the fight, coughing hard.

  Alicia rose and jumped over the final row of seats, at last face to face with her adversary. His gun lay on the floor at his own feet.

  Alicia grinned. “Suddenly feeling inadequate are we?”

  The merc struck. At that moment Crouch slammed on the brakes and swerved to the curb, veering across yet another car. Both the merc and Alicia fell in a heap, tangled together. The man was big and wore a heavy jacket that puffed him up even more. It also served to hamper his movements. Alicia struck hard at his ribs and liver, but the jacket protected him from every blow. Underneath, she twisted and jack-knifed her body, throwing him aside.

  He came up with the gun aimed at her face.

  Russo stepped in, slamming a boot at his neck and breaking bones. Alicia sighed and looked up at the big man.

  “I had him.”

  Russo nodded and held out a hand. “I know. But you don’t need to worry about it. Because you have friends.”

  Crouch’s voice filled the bus. “We should get out of here now. Before the police decide to lock us up.”

  Alicia took Russo’s hand and allowed herself to be lifted to her feet. “Cheers, Rob.”

  “Any time.”

  THIRTY TWO

  By late the next morning the team had everything they needed. A night in an obscure, side-street hotel away from central London and close to King’s Cross did nothing to heighten their enthusiasm, and Alicia came as close as she’d ever been to refusing to take a morning shower. In the end, with the lights off and the door closed to preserve dimness she managed it. When she set eyes upon Crouch the next morning she frowned.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “More important things to do,” he said as they filed out of the cramped lobby and into a brisk, bright morning. “I decided we need a device.”

  Alicia raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Dare I even ask?”

  “Not your kind of device. My mind. The first task of the day is to decide which of the two arches we’re going to concentrate our efforts on.”

  Crouch took a left up Euston Road opposite the great sprawling mass that was King’s Cross Station and started walking. “We need a vibrometer.”

  Alicia thought about everything he had said. “What do you mean ‘my kind of device’?”

  Crouch waved it off. “A vibrometer is a laser radar vibration sensor that can be used to detect the presence of tunnels. Developed originally for the military some years ago it helped detect buried landmines and improvised explosives—IEDs. The sensor measures surface vibrations, analyses them, and then equates them to a library of target data to render a map of what is below ground. It can find anything from voids to hidden machinery.”

  “And you can pick one up in . . . where? Currys?” Russo asked.

  “No. But there is an electronics shop down Tottenham Court Road that has international customers and handles some rather sensitive goods. Nothing strictly illegal, of course, just merchandise the stuffy politicians would rather you didn’t have.”

  Alicia followed the boss past St Pancras and Euston Stations, turning left onto Tottenham Court Road. Healey voiced a concern over being famished and Crouch took a glance at his watch.

  “Actually,” he said, “we do have time for breakfast.”

  They chose croissants, poppy seed pastries and strong black coffee at Kamps before continuing on their way. Crouch entered the large electronics shop alone, leaving Alicia and the rest of the team to their own devices. Alicia watched the flow of human traffic, fascinated by the gym-goers, the dog-walkers, the workmen in their hi-vis jackets and the odd partygoer undertaking the walk of shame. When Crouch returned he held a plastic bag, straining at the handles. Without a word he indicated the closest underground station—Goodge Street.

  Twenty minutes later they were exiting Marble Arch station and heading over to the arch once more. Crouch stopped before the high gates looking a little wary. “This thing isn’t exactly small, but it is the latest tech capable of detecting voids hundreds of feet below the earth.”

  He pulled the device out of the bag. Alicia saw his problem. The machine was as wide as a dinner plate with two holes and cylindrical lugs and a narrow disc-ended snout. Crouch laid the snout gently against the ground and flipped a switch, looking intensely uncomfortable now as a swelling current of sound waves filled the air. Passersby looked over. Alicia found herself wishing she’d relieved one of the earlier workmen of his hi-vis jacket. At least then they might have looked the part.

  “How long does this take?”

  “Don’t worry,” Crouch’s tone belied his words. “Eight to ten seconds.”

  “And the readout?”

  Crouch straightened, holding the machine up. “Right here.”

  The screen displayed a series of multicolored sound waves. To Alicia they meant nothing. Even to Crouch they meant very little.

  “Well, according to my crash course, this says that there are no tunnels running directly under Marble Arch. So the Central Line underground system that has a station back there,” he waved down Oxford Street, “at Bond Street and then here at Marble Arch must kink away toward its next stop at Lancaster Gate. Boys and girls, there’s nothing under here.”

  Deflated, they moved quickly away, retracing their steps of yesterday down Park Lane. “Let’s take a taxi,” Crouch said, holding his arm out. “In case London’s CCTV surveillance system spotted what we were doing.” He shrugged. “It’s better than being stopped on the hoof.”

  Ten minutes later they entered the central island of Hyde Park Corner and walked toward the g
reat Wellington Arch. Crouch waited as long as he could and finally, warily deployed the vibrometer. Then the group retired to one of the benches that dotted the area.

  “What does it say?” Alicia craned over.

  Crouch frowned at the readings. “Would you believe it? A tunnel does not run underneath here.” He stared at the arch. “Three do.”

  Caitlyn bounced in her exuberance. “Three?”

  “According to this they do. And if I’m reading it right, which admittedly,” he shrugged, “is debatable.” He pointed at the screen. “That one is the underground. It’s huge. So the Victoria Line runs almost underneath where we’re sitting now with the road at our backs. But the other two?”

  “I’m on it.” Caitlyn checked her tablet hurriedly. “And here we go. Nowhere does it offer the information that Hyde Park Corner sits above anything but solid ground, but when you add the word ‘tunnel’ we get several items of information. It seems that a large tunnel was built under here in the 1950s to help channel the traffic fumes away. There’s a vent over there,” she pointed at the arch. “Actually inside.” She shook her head. “These people and their secret subways.”

  Crouch read on. “The fire brigade still get on average three calls a year from the general public warning of a fire inside the Wellington Arch because of warm air and dust coming up through the massive hidden ventilation shaft,” he said. “And yet they still keep it all quiet.”

  “You build one tunnel and say it’s a ventilation shaft,” Russo said. “You could easily build another. Or place it over an old one.”

  “No mention of a third,” Caitlyn said.

  Crouch followed the line of the mysterious third tunnel. “It heads directly in that direction to start.” He pointed toward Hyde Park. “Which is interesting because isn’t that building there Apsley House?”

  “Wait,” Caitlyn said. “I just came across this. An account of a man’s visit to the Arc du Carrousel. He blogs ‘it was exciting to take the underground passageways to and from the monument and feel as though you were a part of something larger’. So the Arc had tunnels too.”

  Alicia let them work, their brainstorming part of the process of discovery and idea generation. To know that even now they were sitting above a network of hidden tunnels was exhilarating. Hyde Park Corner sat over a secret tunnel and had done so for untold years.

  What were these people hiding?

  THIRTY THREE

  “How many secrets of this nature does London hold close to its heart?” Crouch wondered quietly. “You have both Marble Arch and Wellington Arch constructed and designed as entrances to Buckingham Palace and then later moved. Is that a clue? You have the Duke’s original statue placed atop the Wellington Arch, also later moved in favor of the quadriga. You have tunnels built alongside other tunnels and hidden by the simple fact that they’re never spoken of. And by mis-information. What do all these monuments conceal? That old abandoned house up Piccadilly?” He pointed to where they could just see crumbling gates and a huge, decrepit, once-stupendous house left to rot. “Is it really empty or is that a clever façade? Thousands of brass nameplates on buildings up Mount Street and Aldford Street and all over Belgravia, companies that mean nothing to anyone and yet on the street outside sit Maybachs, Rolls Royces and matt-black specials. Secret clubs. How many tunnels are there? Underground stations not in use? Offshoots nobody knows about?”

  Alicia was becoming acutely aware of the passage of time. She wondered if Kenzie and Riley might be out there, watching even now. “So what’s the next move?”

  “That arch,” Crouch said. “We need to look inside.”

  *

  Alicia tailed the group as they studied the inside of the Wellington Arch. Even to her it seemed larger inside than it appeared to be from the exterior. Crouch saw almost immediately that an undisclosed door could easily be secreted inside here, even with the inclusion of a police station. As they walked he pointed out the closed-off areas, giving them such a surreptitious wink that Alicia laughed.

  “No Michael,” she said. “That doesn’t look creepy at all.”

  Exiting again into the warming day, Crouch spoke as he walked. “Question is,” he said. “Where’s the subterranean entrance and can we get to it?” He re-examined the readout from the vibrometer device.

  Alicia scanned the area for hostiles. Russo hovered at her side.

  “Wait. I never noticed that before.”

  Alicia turned. “What?”

  “The direct line of our third tunnel enters Hyde Park, yes?”

  Caitlyn jumped in. “Yes!”

  “Well.” He traced the line on a map of London. “Then it definitely goes directly underneath there . . .” He pointed at a remarkable old Bath-stone clad building with high spiked green-painted railings outside. “Apsley House.”

  Alicia shook her head, lost in the swamp of information. “And what’s Apsley House?”

  “The home of Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington. The very man who beat Napoleon at Waterloo. Also knows as Number One, London. It stands right along our route.”

  “It stands alone,” Caitlyn observed, again using her tablet. “The Duke’s house. Surprisingly close to the place where his monument ended up, despite it being isolated on a traffic island and made hard to reach. It’s where Wellesley entertained, strategized and lived for much of his life. It now contains his collection of paintings, porcelain, a magnificent silver centerpiece and . . .” Caitlyn gasped out a breath. “No.”

  Even Alicia looked around. “What?”

  “A heroic marble nude of Napoleon himself! Standing three and a half meters high he holds a gilded Nike in his right hand and a staff in his left. It was originally displayed in the Louvre and then around 1815 transported here by the orders of the Duke after victory. The timeline is spot on for the dating of the Congress of Vienna.”

  “And it is still there?” Healey asked.

  Caitlyn nodded. “One of the house’s main draws.”

  “A Napoleon statue in the Duke’s house?” Crouch said wonderingly. “Is that a clue to the Hercules being there too?”

  “Oh dear, oh wow.” Caitlyn squealed suddenly. “Remember the final part of the verse?” She reminded them all of the as yet unsolved riddle.

  “By the Pillars of Hercules he endures, a part of the soil, hiding among New Arches envisioned, to the victor the spoils,” Crouch recalled. “I guess we still need to find the Pillars of Hercules.”

  Alicia scanned the horizon as if expecting to see two great marble columns. Crouch set off in the direction of the spotless-looking old house, but Caitlyn’s voice rooted them all to the spot.

  “How about this? Apsley House, built around 1771 stands on the site of an old lodge that belonged to the crown. Immediately before the start of the house’s construction it was occupied by a tavern called Hercules’ Pillars.”

  The whole group stared in wonder across at Apsley House.

  “That place was once a tavern called Hercules Pillars?” Crouch said.

  “Yep. It was immortalized in print in the book A History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding as the location where Squire Western resides when he first journeys up to London.”

  “Then the Napoleon statue might be more than the spoils of war,” Crouch said. “Much, much more.”

  Caitlyn stared at him, still shellshocked. “You’re thinking X marks the spot?”

  Crouch grinned. “What could be better? A naked statue of your nemesis and your country’s vilest enemy, standing in your own home above the greatest treasure he ever owned, that you now possess? It’s pure conquest. The perfect triumph.”

  “Even I have to admit,” Alicia said. “There are simply too many coincidences for this not to be significant.”

  Crouch plonked himself down on the grass that bounded the Wellington Arch. “This does throw up several rather large flags though,” he admitted. “If we’re correct. Somebody knows what we know. Somebody of importance and in authority. And t
hey’re keeping the Hercules hidden for a reason, probably greed. Why don’t they want it found? Is it still too precious for the masses? If so then I certainly don’t agree with them.”

  Alicia watched him take out his cellphone and contact Rolland Sadler, their benefactor. Crouch explained the situation in terse terms and then listened closely to Sadler’s decision.

  “I agree. It should be outed. The solicitors can worry about the legalities and the precedents and wrongdoings later. And let’s face facts—the bloody thing might even have moved on.”

  Alicia judged Sadler’s reply to be of a doubtful nature. Crouch finished up with a promise. “We’ll find it if it’s there, Rolland. Be assured of that.”

  Then he scrutinized his team. “Looks like we’re about to vandalize an English Heritage site. Any objections?”

  *

  They paid an entrance fee, Crouch grumbling about the cost and waving away a woman offering headsets. Alicia asked the way to the Adam Staircase.

  “Just through the door there.” A bespectacled woman pointed. “And don’t forget to take the stairs to the first floor for the Waterloo Gallery. And the basement.” She pointed ahead.

  Crouch knit his brow. “There’s a Waterloo Gallery too?”

  “Yes. The Duke collected many paintings of his victories. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a headset? Just one maybe?”

  Caitlyn held back a sigh and offered her hand. When the headphones and machine were duly handed over and operations revealed the woman backed away. Alicia led the way to the Adam Staircase and then exclaimed: “Oh my!”

  She stared at the enormous marble nude, fascinated. Napoleon appeared to be walking, with a robe of some sort thrown over his upraised left arm, the hand clasping a staff. In his right hand rested a victory standing on an orb, the pose making him appear to be offering the victory to someone.

  Russo nudged her. “What do you think?”