“Come on, Nicholas, maybe they can make you a frittata as good as Cook Crumbe’s at Old Farrow Hall. Who knows when we’ll be able to eat again?”
“I don’t want the president at risk at all. I want to find Ardelean before he has a chance to send a drone or one of his falcons.” He shook his head at himself, lifted the phone, and placed a breakfast order, with lots of strong coffee.
When he hung up, Mike had slipped from the bed and was headed to the shower. He watched for a moment, smiled at the incredible wild hair around her head and the rest of her, then got up and walked to the window to stare out at the city. Roman Ardelean was out there somewhere. He’d told them they would die if they didn’t go home.
Nicholas joined Mike in the shower.
* * *
They drove to Buckingham Palace in three separate black Range Rovers. Today Mike saw nothing but bright blue and an incredible shining sun overhead, the cold rain long gone. A perfect day for a barbecue.
She felt a shiver, leaned close. “You were worried this morning we’d missed something. Well, now you’ve got company, I feel it, too. Something isn’t right.”
“I don’t suppose you know what it is?”
Nicholas’s mobile rang. “Melinda, is something wrong?”
“No, no, the schedule changed. No announcement. We’ll be going to Parliament instead of doing the barbecue at Buckingham Palace. The Queen will be there, too. She’ll be speaking to the House of Commons, about Brexit, as well as the president and the PM.”
“When did the schedule change, Melinda?”
“This morning sometime. We were just called to session. I don’t know the details. I’m assuming they finally listened to us, decided to keep everyone indoors instead of parading them out under the clear blue sky for target practice. Or they got a threat, and that caused the change of venue. I don’t know.”
Nicholas looked at Mike. “It’s a right relief. Good for you. We’re on our way.”
The cars did a turn and drove back toward the Thames.
Mike said, “You know what? It would take serious armament to get into Parliament.”
Nicholas said slowly, “True, but I wouldn’t put anything past Ardelean.”
The Carriage Gates, where another attack had taken place, was smothered in security. They weren’t subtle about it, either—no less than twenty SWAT-geared officers, along with a bevy of armed officers and regular Metropolitan Police. Tourists were forming a line across St. Margaret Street, in Parliament Square. Nicholas remembered his first visit to Parliament with his grandfather when he’d been three years old. He’d been overwhelmed by the incredible rooms, one after the other, the sheer opulence, the huge golden building, glistening under a bright sun, just like today. The seat of all that was right and just, his grandfather had told him, and he’d never forgotten. In theory, his grandfather had added. Nicholas hadn’t forgotten that, either.
Nicholas studied the crowd. “Visitors to this city always do have a keen sense of something about to happen.”
“Nowadays everyone is so hypervigilant when they see a bunch of law enforcement, they assume something’s happened or is being prevented from happening.”
“It looks secure. Where do you want to set up? Inside?”
She shook her head. “Honestly, I am much more worried about security outside than in. Ben can go inside with Melinda and your dad. Let’s stay out here. I’m sure Penderley’s people will be happy to have you around.”
“Maybe. I agree about our staying outside—we can keep watch.”
They were expected. The Range Rovers were ushered through the gate into the courtyard, then thoroughly examined. When all was clear and they were out of the cars, Nicholas and Mike looked immediately at the sky. They saw nothing of concern. Ben trotted up.
“Ben, Mike and I are going to stay out here. You’re our extra layer of security inside. If anything feels off, don’t question, yell out.”
Ben nodded, passed out comms. “Adam is monitoring everything. If there’s trouble, you’ll know.” Mike put hers in, tested, heard Nicholas and Ben loud and clear.
Adam said, “Good morning, lady and gentlemen, the temperature is twenty degrees Celsius and the skies are blue—a magical surprise. All is nominal on the field. Play ball.”
They all laughed and split up to their stations. Mike and Nicholas watched Ben and the rest of the team head inside the massive Parliament building. Nicholas saw his father pointing them out to the guards at the doors, knew he was letting the men know they were to be allowed inside, without interference, should the need arise.
Mike asked, “If something happens in there, do you know how to get to them?”
“Oh yes. My grandfather has spoken in the House of Lords a number of times. I used to be allowed days off school to come watch.” And again, he remembered his first visit.
“I sometimes forget one day you’ll be Baron De Vesci, a peer of the realm, and wear a wig and talk on the floor.”
“Let’s all pray by the time that happens, they will have done away with the wigs. Come with me, I want to show you something.”
They listened to their comms as the updates from Ben came in.
“The Queen has arrived.”
“The PM and the president are here.”
“The session is starting.”
“All is well, they’re speaking.”
“Estimate we’ll be done in fifteen minutes and on our way out to the terrace for the reception.”
Mike followed Nicholas out of the courtyard, to the Thames and Westminster Bridge. They were under the shadow of Big Ben for a moment, then they were walking out onto the bridge.
Nicholas pointed to the canopied terrace of Westminster. She saw guards patrolling.
“Last year, a security assessment found terrorists could get from the river into the Commons Chamber in less than five minutes. A resilience test. It was a massive failure, or a massive success, whichever side of the fence you’re on.”
“You’d think they’d secure this area first. I see only a dozen guards. Anyone could come up with a boat—”
“—or a drone.” He shrugged. “I know I’m being paranoid, but for some reason, it still doesn’t feel secure, it’s—”
“Nicholas, look! There, at ten o’clock.”
They saw a dense cloud moving toward them, impenetrable, like a thick fog bank spilling down the river. Only it wasn’t a cloud. Nicholas tapped his comms, shouted, “Alert one, alert one ! A sky full of drones. Ardelean is coming!”
She vaguely heard the responses and calls begin, everyone going on alert. Mike watched the mass grow closer, heard the massive whine of thousands of rotors.
“Go! Go!” Nicholas pulled her from the rail, but she couldn’t help it, she looked back as they raced across the bridge toward the Parliament courtyard.
They saw a nightmare. The cloud was becoming more detailed as it drew closer. Soon they saw the birds, then the drones of every size, rotors whirring, flying in lines ten drones wide. They were being led down the Thames by Ardelean’s falcons, flying in a V, and Mike would swear the lead bird was the bitch who’d attacked them yesterday.
She heard shouts and looked west, more drones, coming in fast, and from the east and south, even more.
She saw the water churning beneath the northernmost cloud of drones. She pointed, pulled her weapon.
“Look, Nicholas, the speed boat. It’s Ardelean! He’s leading his army.”
Mike started shooting at the boat, emptied her first magazine before Ardelean got within range.
“We’re bloody surrounded!”
Her heart sank. There was no way to win this fight, and she knew it. It didn’t matter, she slapped a fresh magazine in place, yelled in her comms, “We need as much air power as we can get out here. Every weapon needs to be trained on the skies. The drones are coming in too fast for us. We need real armament.”
She heard voices, shouts, orders. She shut her eyes, praying, then started firing in
to the sky.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Hot metal rained down as bullets hit drones. Mike, Nicholas, SWAT teams, armed police, everyone was shooting into the sky.
Nicholas slapped an M4 into Mike’s hands, and she went down on one knee beside him.
“Nicholas, the terrace, look! They’re wiping out the security there.” They ran toward the center of the bridge, dodging the barrage of bullets, the grenades. Her ears rang with the incredible battle sounds, the screams, and her eyes watered at the acrid smell of smoke. She jerked at his arm. “Nicholas, how do we stop them?”
He yelled into his comms, “Alert one, be advised Ardelean is coming in from the river, through the Terrace Pavilion entrance!”
Harry shouted, “That leads to Westminster Hall! We are barricading in the Commons. They’ve activated the security protocols, everything’s being shut down. There’s no way he can get in here. What’s happening out there?”
“The drone army is killing everyone in sight. Ardelean is controlling them.”
“Nicholas, look. The birds.”
Ardelean’s cast of falcons was flying the length of the terrace, swooping, diving in and out like bats after mosquitos, and several smaller drones joined them, patrolling. Mike could see the bodies of the guards now, their blood spilling into the Thames. She yelled into her comms, “Terrace, all guards down! All guards down!”
Nicholas said into his comms, “Father, we can’t come from outside. Those drones will tear us apart before we get anywhere near them. We’re going to have to get to him from inside. How do we do it?”
“Nicholas. Do you remember the tunnel? I showed it to you a long time ago.”
“Yes, yes, I remember.”
“We’ll be bringing the president and the PM out that way, but be careful. No one’s used the tunnel in almost a century.”
They took off toward Big Ben. The sky was dark with smoke, fires raged along the edges of the building. There were bodies strewn on the ground amid smoking chunks of drone. First responders were racing into the nightmare scene, police firing into the sky. They saw a double-decker bus on its side, people crawling out through broken windows, heard screams, crying, and bullets, so many, deafening. They were in the middle of a war zone.
Finally, they heard the throaty whine of a Typhoon jet. Nicholas yelled, “Military is here, thank all that’s holy.”
They raced past Cromwell Green and the Old Palace Yard, down St. Margaret Street, running hard, to the corner, to Millbank House.
They dashed inside, badges out so the security wouldn’t toss them to the ground, ignoring shouts and cries of “What’s happening?” They pushed through the crowd of people who’d taken shelter inside the stairwell.
Nicholas pulled open the door, and they went down, and down, and down again.
“Nicholas, where are we going? What’s this tunnel?”
“There’s a tunnel between the two buildings, in case of emergency. It’s ancient, shut down after World War II. Part of it collapsed. It wasn’t deemed safe.”
Mike said with absolute conviction, “It’ll be safe enough.”
He sent her a mad grin, led her through the basement to a dark, cobwebbed corner to an old, wooden door with a gleaming lock and a NO TRESPASSING sign.
“Step back.” Nicholas shot off the lock. He kicked open the door, and a great gust of dust hit them in the face.
Nicholas coughed, choked out, “If the tunnel’s not blocked, we’ll be able to pass under the Chancellor’s Court, just off the Peer’s entrance. The terrace pavilion is on the opposite side of the building. You ready?”
“Let’s go.”
He took a small Maglite off his vest and shined it into the darkness. “Careful. There’s still rubble and who knows what else in here. Watch your step.”
She nearly stumbled on a pile of rocks, righted, and jumped over a huge chunk of timber. The air was dank, smelled of long-ago dirt and long-ago death, entombed and left to rot.
They dodged and ran. Nicholas swiped a spider web from in front of his face.
He grabbed her as she stepped down on a chunk of wood and her foot rolled. She knew immediately she’d hurt her ankle, but it didn’t matter. She took a step and another. “I’m okay, keep going.”
Adrenaline masked the pain enough so she could continue on. It hurt, it hurt a lot, but no choice. She moved with him forward, ever forward, into the darkness.
“Here, at last,” he said and started up a decrepit metal flight of stairs. They were three stories down, she counted over one hundred stairs, aware of pain tearing through her ankle, and then the door was in front of them.
It was locked. Nicholas banged the door, shouted, “Father? If you’re there, a little help, please.”
With a massive creak, the door opened. There stood Harry Drummond, backlit by the interior of Westminster Palace. “Took you long enough.”
Nicholas grinned and stepped through, pulling Mike with him.
They scarcely heard the battle rage outside—the walls were so thick. The room wasn’t large, but it was clean, neat, and, at the moment, full of a dozen very serious men and women bristling with weapons. Coming toward them, surrounded by guards, came the Queen. They hustled her into the dark tunnel without a word. The president went next, cocooned by Secret Service. He stopped when he saw Nicholas and Mike.
Nicholas said, “Sir. It is good to see you again, though I apologize for the circumstances.”
“Nicholas, Mike. I always wondered about an escape hatch from Parliament.” And he shook both their hands. “You two will take care of this, won’t you?”
“We will, sir,” Mike said.
A Secret Service agent nudged the president. “We must go now, sir.”
The president gave them a salute and disappeared after the Queen into the darkness.
The prime minister was right behind the president, his security detail herding him toward the tunnel. He stopped, though, said, “Good luck,” before they hustled him into the dark.
Harry slammed closed the door behind them, barred it. Nicholas helped him move the tapestry and furniture back into place. “Everyone’s together in the Commons Chamber, including Ben and Melinda. We assume Ardelean is in the building, but we don’t know where.”
Nicholas said, “By the looks of the firepower he had, I’m betting he came in through the Terrace Pavilion. He must expect them to take the Queen, the president, and the PM out that way. He probably knows exactly what sort of security protocol would lead to that scenario and created it. He wouldn’t know about the tunnel, though. No way. It’s not on any blueprint.”
Harry gave them fresh magazines for their weapons. “Then let’s go get him.”
Mike looked behind her as they left the small, beautifully furnished room. No one could tell that the still-vibrant Flemish tapestry of a medieval hunting scene covered the entrance to freedom.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
The Palace of Westminster—Parliament—was built on the site of William the Conqueror’s first palace. Rebuilt in Victorian times as a Gothic fantasy palace, it is an eight-acre jumble of buildings, courtyards, passageways, and corridors. There are 100 staircases, more than 1,000 rooms, and three miles of passages.
—BBC.com
Parliament
London
Roman knew all doors to the building would be heavily guarded, knew the biometrics would shut them all, making those inside feel they were safe. He also knew his Night Hawks would be the hardest weapons to defend against once they were inside, and he had a computer program installed that would open all the locks and let him move anywhere in Westminster Palace he wanted. He’d shut down their cameras, shut down their fire suppression systems.
He owned Parliament now.
The drones had worked perfectly, taking out all the exterior river guards. He thumbed a microdose onto his tongue, waited a moment, felt the punch of it, thumbed another. Barstow was dead and that gave him a shot of pleasure. But Barstow was only one of
the dissolute powermongering monsters who believed they could do anything, betray anyone, and get away with it. They believed themselves immune from justice, above any laws they themselves had made. They—his own government—had killed Radu, and now they wanted to destroy him, and after all the technological advantages he’d provided them, the drone army he’d gladly built to help shut down terrorism. All a lie, a joke. Betrayal rang in his head, gnawed in his belly, and he fought back a scream of rage. No, no, another microdose to steady him.
His heart was pumping hard, his brain sparking with power, tunneling the world, making it narrow to a pulsing red point. It was time, time to prove who and what he was. It was time for payback.
He held out a fist, and Arlington came to land. He nuzzled her head, and she cheeped at him.
“Tired, my love?”
She cheeped again, agreeing with him, he knew. “I am, as well. We’re almost there.” He gave her a grouse neck from his jacket, and went inside Westminster Hall, the drones and birds buzzing all around him.
It was almost quiet, if you could call the panic of hundreds of people silence. He knew everyone was looking out at his birds doing their mad dance before they dive-bombed the windows, scaring the people inside to death. It was a deception he’d learned from them. They loved to distract, to get their prey ready to move in the wrong direction. A game his falcons played when they were hunting on the estate.
Enough fuss outside, and he would be able to slip in the back.
He could smell smoke, feel the concussions of the missiles outside. He couldn’t keep up the onslaught forever; he would eventually run out of ammunition. Once it was all gone, the drones were programmed to divert back to base—if they survived the attack, of course. And these degenerates, these self-serving criminals, he would punish them, kill them all. What made him so confident was the fact they didn’t know his limitations.
The Sixth Day Page 35
