“Me? I just wonder how often Napoleon really wore a fig leaf strapped to his bollocks.”
Crouch shook his head despairingly. “Only you, Alicia. Only you.”
“What?”
“In this house? Amongst these works of art and wonder and magnificent sculptures. As I said, only you.”
“You get what you see.” Alicia indicated herself rather than the statue.
“And don’t we know it.”
Russo grunted softly at her side, stifling laughter. Alicia realized she’d been duped. “Ahh, Robster. You’ll pay for that.”
Crouch quickly turned his attention to the surface on which the large statue rested. Flagstones, some cracked, surrounded it. No carpet. No wooden flooring. Caitlyn, listening to the recording, pointed out that the floor actually had to be strengthened to accommodate the weight of the statue. He checked the walls all around it, rapping his knuckles against the surface, but it was all continuous plaster. It was only when he walked around to the rear that his gaze settled on something.
“An air-con unit?” he wondered, pointing out a large, scruffy white box seemingly bolted to the wall.
Alicia came around to look but was immediately taken with Napoleon’s perfect buttocks. “Now that’s an ass,” she said. “If only Kenzie were here. I’d tell her. Maybe even stuff her head between them.”
Crouch winced. “I’d like to get a closer look at that—” He paused as a group of tourists came in and paused to admire the sculpture.
Alicia whispered. “Say the word. I’m sure I can say something that’ll make them move along at a faster pace.”
Crouch held up a hand. “Not necessary. I often find the art of lingering and mulling to be quite successful.”
“Oh yeah.” Alicia moved away. “Me too.”
Crouch walked to the front of the room, taking in the entire picture. The tourist group moved on and then so did another. Several sniggering schoolboys on a school trip clattered by and, as they climbed the winding staircase, tried to reach out and touch the victory. Crouch returned at last, pointing now to Alicia’s left.
“You see the blue unit there? It’s what? A heating unit? A housing? See the black mesh.”
Alicia stared toward the unit he indicated. It was large, affixed to the wall, with a flat top on which stood another carving and a plaque explaining the painting that hung above. “It’s larger than the air-con box,” she said. “Easily big enough to admit a person.”
“Right. But let’s not forget the basement.”
Alicia stood bored as Crouch and Caitlyn dragged them downstairs and examined every inch, every painting and display case that resided at the bottom of Apsley House.
In the end it was easy for Crouch. “You spoke of coincidence.” He rounded on Alicia quite suddenly. “You?”
“All right, calm down, Mikey. I’ll take that one on the chin.”
“No,” he said, excitement making him tremble a little. “No. Look!”
He waved at the final display case placed in the furthest corner of the basement, between two walls, a square container running from floor to ceiling like a shaft.
“It’s all in here. The display. Do you see? A print of Napoleon. The original victory from the hand of the statue upstairs. That one is a fake, so schoolboys can touch it without fear of damage. And here . . . Napoleon’s death mask. And a print of St Helena, where he died. This is the display, the victory shelf. This is our X, the real triumphal shrine to everything Napoleon lost.”
Caitlyn was on her knees, examining the pieces as closely as she could.
Alicia dropped beside her but concentrated on the floor instead. “Drag marks,” she said. “Faint. It doesn’t happen often but this cabinet comes away from the walls.”
Crouch looked around. The room was otherwise empty, the basement and its several flights seemingly a step too far for most of the visitors. Of course, the majority of the house’s riches were on the first floor.
“Do it,” he said. “This is what we’re here for. This is the end. We already have mercenaries and tyrants up our asses. Might as well have the local cops too. And if this leads to what I think it does . . . we’ll be walking right on out of here with nothing to fear.”
Alicia and Russo hooked their fingers over the cabinet’s metal frame at the top and bottom. Together, they pulled, gently at first. When nothing happened and a camera-touting tourist wandered in, Healey caught his attention by stumbling over an uneven piece of flooring. The group waited a few minutes and then tried again.
“Steady,” Crouch mouthed. “Steady.”
Gradually, inch by inch, the cabinet moved. It had been designed to be a problematic shift.
“Maybe this isn’t the true entrance at all,” Crouch said. “I can’t see Mr. and Mrs. Dandy Upper-Class Rich Person taking the shaft, can you?”
Alicia grimaced, still pulling hard and wishing she had enough breath left to answer that one. The possibilities were endless, stunning, as attractive as a desert sunset. But then the cabinet pulled free and they were left looking at the perfect square of a black hole that disappeared into the earth underneath Apsley House and London. A waft of age and earth floated up, not entirely unpleasant.
Crouch practically capered to the front. “All right. Bloody hell, I’d give my right arm for a flickering torch.”
Alicia had to grin at his geekish fervor. Russo puffed at her. “I s’pose we could use a rolled-up painting from upstairs,” he dead-panned. “But that might land us in even more bubbling liquid.”
Healey handed out powerful torches from his backpack, giving Crouch an actual lantern flashlight to help lead the way. Alicia descended second, the barrel of her torch held between her teeth and illuminating the rough walls in haphazard fashion. She estimated an easy descent of about ten feet before a tunnel opened out below. Crouch was already turning in place like a dog marking its territory.
“What’s up?” She jumped down to find they were standing at a three-way tunnel junction.
“Just getting my bearings.” He checked his Special Forces watch. “This is the tunnel we found earlier,” he said. “Stretching into Hyde Park.” He pointed. “And then that way to the Wellington Arch.” He motioned. “Everything’s in a straight line as per Paris and the Arc de Triomphe. Everything lines up.”
“So what’s in Hyde Park?” Alicia wondered.
“I don’t know.”
“And that way?” She stood at the entrance to the third tunnel—one they hadn’t found earlier.
“I don’t know, Alicia. That way, the third . . .” He squinted. “Heads toward Piccadilly.”
“It must run directly above the Victoria Line,” she said. “That’s why it didn’t show up earlier. The vibrometer just picked up the bigger Tube tunnel. Now that’s some clever concealment.”
Crouch nodded slowly as the others climbed down to join them. “An important tunnel.”
“Tube stops are Hyde Park Corner to Green Park to Piccadilly Circus,” Caitlyn said. “What’s up that way?”
“And which way’s the treasure?” Russo rumbled. “ ‘Cause it ain’t gonna take long before someone finds that wide open hole in the floor.”
Crouch grinned. “To my mind there’s only one possible place for the treasure to be,” he breathed, almost overwhelmed. “That way. Right under the monument to one of our greatest ever commanders. Under the Wellington Arch.”
The treasure hunters continued their unremitting search, bowed but not broken by adversity, marching between rough walls of cracked stone, beset by the rumblings of what could only be traffic both above and below, hemmed in by the earth and breathing air that might be filtered down from the arch above or even from the passage that led into Hyde Park, until they came to a passage that no longer looked coarse but instead looked grand and majestic, imposing and splendid. The walls moved away as their path widened out and dim lights appeared above. Something glittered in the darkness ahead.
Something glorious.
Something stunning.
And Michael Crouch fell to his knees in wonder as he approached.
Words were not enough.
THIRTY FOUR
The Hercules Tarentum was the greatest work of art of the greatest sculptor of the greatest leader who ever walked the earth. It was the only surviving work of that sculptor. It had been looked upon only by the privileged for untold centuries, and the cause of death and the shedding of rivers of blood, possibly the driving force for the entire sack of Constantinople. Consequently it was a spoil of war, plundered by conquerors and despaired at by the defeated. More than the Horses of St. Mark, it was unattainable.
But even these facts running through Michael Crouch’s mind did not prepare him for the utter wonder of it all. It rose colossal, like a conquering Titan, climbing toward the vault of the ceiling and causing him to crane his neck up and up. Once in ancient times it stood on the acropolis of a Greek colony, as often visited by people as the famous spectacles of today. Spotlights glittered and shimmered all around it, set in stone and brick. Seated atop a bronzed chair, even his toes began at the top of Crouch’s head. Glimmering golden shimmers gleamed from every facet, every plane of the body, limbs and head. Crouch felt his eyes dazzled by the shining lights and he couldn’t move. Not even his mind worked properly.
Hercules sat upright and strong, a key in one hand and a cup in the other. His immense size, as well as stunning the senses, served to remind the onlooker of the man, the God himself, and of all the deeds he once accomplished.
“How on earth would they ever get something this size down here?” Russo asked.
Crouch found his voice for a second. “Just remember all the construction, the tunnels built here and in Paris, and even back in Venice and Constantinople. The Hagia Sophia rebuilt again and again. St. Mark’s Basilica rebuilt. Do you really think those and dozens more restorations were purely cosmetic? No, ostensibly they were to hide something else and new additions. And it is still done that way to this very day.”
“So when you see St. Paul’s or the Washington Monument or some important cathedral covered in scaffolding don’t just think they’re tinkering with the wallpaper?” Healey put forward.
“No. Think sinister. At least, that’s what I do.”
Alicia moved forward, even her bluster momentarily subdued by the fabulous treasure. The walls to his back had been covered by carvings and tiny sculptures. She now noticed a seating area off to the right. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “Your perception of this being a treasure of privilege was spot on. They even have their own little viewing area.”
Russo craned his neck. “No Pepsi machine?”
“Sorry. It’s probably Bring Your Own Bollinger.”
Crouch finally roused himself. From his backpack he took a digital camera and proceeded to catalogue the entire area. Both Caitlyn and Healey did the same, preserving the pictures for later and providing backups.
“So what’s next?” Caitlyn breathed. “Now that we’ve succeeded.”
“It’s time to bring this beauty to the world’s attention.” Crouch smiled at her. “We’ll use the same protocols we used for the Aztec gold. Get Rolland involved. Find us someone in authority we can trust. But first we have to map out the rest of this tunnel complex.”
Alicia backed away from the Hercules, feeling an urge to bow. The others followed slowly and they soon came back to the three-way junction.
“Let’s try the one that heads toward Piccadilly.” Crouch nodded. “That one intrigues me most.”
Alicia led the way, following a new passage that began to descend at a sharp angle. Luckily the passage was wide and cobbled, affording excellent grip. Alicia also noticed filigree on the walls, lending the route an air of sophistication. Nobody spoke as the tunnel wound down and down, the minutes passing slowly. In the end, Alicia exited under a high archway and beheld what lay on the other side.
“Fuck me,” she breathed. “I didn’t expect that.”
THIRTY FIVE
“Whoa.” Russo pushed past her shoulder. “Is this . . . is this an underground station?”
Alicia nodded. “Yeah, and it sure as hell ain’t on any Tube map.”
Their path descended to a wide platform and a much wider tunnel that arrowed straight ahead, keeping up the direction they were traveling. The ceiling was a brick vault, the walls painted over yellowing plaster. No decorations were in evidence. The station appeared to be entirely functional and nothing beyond obligatory. The rails gleamed.
Crouch nodded at the train. “Are you getting on?”
Alicia studied the double carriage. To her, it appeared to be a standard Tube transport, complete with sliding doors and no doubt the tinny-voiced tannoy operator she could never quite hear. “I’m not really a Tube kinda girl.”
Russo grunted. Crouch pushed past her and approached the train that sat as still as a mountain alongside the platform. As Alicia watched he reached out a hand to press the illuminated entry button.
The doors slid open instantly with a sound that reminded her of Star Trek. Clearly, the carriage was modern and well kept. She craned her neck around, trying to see further up the tunnel. Dim lights shone up there, revealing nothing but the cold stone-clad walls around them. All she could tell was, the track as far as she could see ran dead straight.
Crouch entered the second carriage, followed by Caitlyn and Healey. Alicia could see through the windows that the inside was similar to the standard arrangement except for the seats which were real leather and extremely plush. As she looked harder she saw bespoke champagne buckets built into the floors and seat pockets that held reading material. The floor was plush carpet. A red button beside every seat no doubt summoned a waitress. Alicia stepped onto the train.
Crouch moved into the first carriage and then approached the front. “A small driver’s carriage,” he called back, then popped his head through the door. “Shall we?”
Alicia liked his style. “Hell, yeah.”
Taking the train to its terminus seemed the best idea. At the very least it would shed some light on to the prime mover behind this spectacle, this statement. The team grabbed poles in imitation of a normal Tube train before grinning at each other a little self-consciously.
“I don’t exactly think it will be like the Northern Line at rush hour,” Russo said.
“More like the Personal Shopper line at Selfridges,” Caitlyn said.
Alicia spun as voices echoed down the tunnel. In another moment she saw feet and then Kevlar-jacketed bodies and hard faces. How the hell had Kenzie found them this time? She raised one of the guns she’d appropriated from the dead bus-riding mercs and took aim. Russo lined up beside her. Caitlyn screamed for Crouch to get the train started.
The engine juddered to life.
And the mercs piled on.
Alicia saw the glint of a flashing blade near the tail-end of the assault and knew that Kenzie had already found the Hercules—this then was her final onslaught.
All in, she thought, for the win.
An arm slammed down on her shoulder with crushing strength. Alicia took the pain and jabbed into the exposed armpit, drawing forth a shriek. Already another body was in her face, the vest of a tall man scraping her forehead. She brought a knee up, the close confines leaving her little choice, and felt him buckle. Realizing there was no way of stopping the mercs from boarding the still-unmoving train the Gold Team fell back to give themselves more room. A gunshot went off and a man fell between the train and the platform, hitting the tracks hard.
Alicia fired and ripped one of the champagne buckets away from its tenuous stand, using it like a baseball bat. Her target took the slam on the forehead. Blood spurted and flowed, spraying his colleagues as he collapsed to the floor. Others tripped over him. Alicia scrambled back to give them more room to fall.
At that moment the train rattled into motion. Its wheels gripped hard and a squeal emitted from the tracks below. Slow movement occurred. Those mercs left on the platform jumped for the doors.
Alicia was torn—on the one hand wanting less enemies to fight but on the other unhappy about leaving them in the vicinity of the greatest treasure she had ever found.
Not that they could move the bloody thing.
But they could damage it. Losers often took to destroying or damaging that which they could not attain. The world suffered often and significantly because of it.
The train picked up speed. Mercs crowded down the second carriage. Alicia jumped onto a plush chair and fired, feeling a return bullet whizz past her ear. A window shattered. Another bullet thunked into the leather. She leapt over the end, gun whipping down and across the bridge of a nose. To her left Russo ran at them like a bowling ball, scattering them like pins. One man hit the window so hard he not only broke it, but fell through the resultant gap, dragged along between the rough wall and the train for a few meters.
Alicia winced. Even Kenzie, who she kept a constant eye on, flinched a little. Russo took advantage of his destructive rush and pounded on half-comatose men. In the end he had to launch himself headfirst to avoid a bullet.
The projectile pierced the roof of the train. Alicia noted Healey at her back, standing between her and Caitlyn. The ex-MI5 analyst in turn protected Crouch with a fully loaded pistol. Healey took a blow, but gave as good as he got. By now the train was rattling along at full speed and Crouch showed no signs of slowing down. Alicia estimated only half a dozen mercs remained back at the platform and, leaderless, they would probably fade away. Let them. The less people interested in the treasure the better for all of them.
Kenzie’s blade ripped through leather at her side. Alicia was suddenly face to face with the relic smuggler.
“I always make good on my promises,” Kenzie hissed.
“Really?” Alicia incapacitated another merc as she eyed her opponent. “Which gym did you choose?”
She sprang back as the blade sliced the air where her throat had been. Unbalanced by the bouncy, leather-bound seat she sprang back into the aisle. She moved forward. The train plowed on. The mercenaries advanced. Russo threw men left and right, took heavy blows and even a bullet to the side. Luckily, it only winged him, a scratch, nothing to write home about.
Alicia Myles 2 - Crusader's Gold Page 18
