“A statement from the office of the Prince of Wales is expected later in the day. At this point he has not responded publicly to the Queen’s announcement.
“No dates have yet been put forward for the coronation. Early reports indicate that the Palace will likely push plans forward as quickly as possible in order to have the ceremony take place prior to next year’s elections. . . .”
1
The Stone
One
A thatched stone cottage set between the slopes of two rugged mountains in the Highlands of western Scotland could not have been a more fit symbol of that nation’s colorful past. The man and woman seated before the peat fire burning in its hearth, however, were ostensibly discussing the country’s future, and their own. They were not as agreed on either topic as one of them supposed.
“The time is nearly at hand, my dear,” said the man. “Will he go along?”
“He will agree,” she replied. “How can he do otherwise? His career is at stake. We will make sure of that.”
“And you, Fiona—you have no doubt led him to believe that you will be part of that future with him?”
The speaker’s lips turned up in a cunning smile. But around their edges could be detected a hint of jealousy. In his heart lately he had grown anxious that his suspicion concerning her methods might indeed be correct.
“You do your part in your own way, Baen,” the woman replied, “and let me do mine. You handle the politics. I will insure his cooperation. What about the equipment?”
“It is being delivered next week.”
“Then we are set for the first week of February?”
“On schedule—three days before the coronation. By then we should be well on our way toward the victory which the Stone will secure. Are you sure you want to be part of the team?”
“Of course. You don’t think I would miss the climax of all we have worked for.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“I’ve seen danger before.”
“I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said, reaching across and attempting to take her hand. She pretended not to notice, however, and kept both hands safely cradling the warm cup between her palms.
“Nothing will happen to me,” she said.
“Then let us anticipate that day when our objective has been attained. When we next enjoy tea under this roof, snow will have blanketed the Highlands.”
“And we will have our prize,” she added.
The man nodded, raising his teacup to acknowledge her words. He thought to himself that two prizes would await him on that day, both the stone they sought and the beautiful woman sitting across from him at this moment. By then he would have eliminated all competitors for her affections.
“To Caledonia,” he said.
“To ancient Scotia,” she repeated, lifting her cup in answering gesture.
Two
The waters of the Thames flowed murky and silent.
From the black, glistening surface a thin mist rose as night descended. Gradually its white wispy fingers crept up past the high banks, extending out beyond the docks to probe London’s nearby streets.
With night came February’s familiar chill, the damp air easily enough finding the bones. By morning the city would be shrouded in the thick fog for which it was so well known.
A slender, wood-hulled river craft made its way slowly upriver under the Waterloo Bridge and past Charing Cross Pier, slicing through the current almost as noiselessly as it parted the low fog that clung to the west bank about fifty meters from shore. Only one man was aboard, standing in the small cabin at the controls. His speed was no more than two or three knots.
Not all history is written before the eyes of men. The destiny of his oft-forgotten nation would be reshaped during the silent, cold, misty hours of this night. Few would see what they did. But within twenty-four hours the whole world would take notice. He had planned this moment for ten years. His beloved land would soon rise again to rightful global prominence.
As the boat passed under Westminster Bridge and neared the Houses of Parliament, it slowed yet more, then gradually moved shoreward once it was past the bright reflection of the lights lining the terrace of the Palace.1 It floated to a standstill just past the wall of the fabled building where it bordered the Victoria Tower Gardens. The pause lasted but a few moments. A dull thud sounded from somewhere below the hull, the signal that his hidden cargo was off.
With the lines he had been dragging now safely disconnected, the boat’s pilot throttled forward and continued upriver, faster now in the shadows of the bare maples of the gardens, under Lambeth Bridge and toward Battersea. He would return this way an hour before dawn. And his morning cargo would be heavier by several hundreds of pounds.
Below the surface, four wet-suited figures swam toward the bottom of the black, grimy waters. Now began their phase of this treacherous and momentous mission. When again the light of day rose, they would either be dead, behind bars, retreating in defeat, or safely skimming northward on the open seas with their quarry. The next few hours would determine which. In the meantime, they had work to do.
It was low tide, so they were not as far beneath the surface as they might have liked. But entry now was necessary so that their escape would come when the tide was in, obscuring their movements with several additional feet of black water.
The lead diver switched on the underwater spotlight atop his head. He could see no more than two or three feet before them, but that would be enough. Should anyone above observe the strange underwater light, it would be indistinguishable from the multitude of reflections shimmering off the surface from brightly lit Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament.
They had run test drills with the equipment deep in Loch Ness. No monster had made an appearance, but they had worked the bugs out of this first tricky phase of the operation. Now the leader swam confidently as he led the others toward shore. His job was to find and open the long disused sewer hatch. The other three wriggled behind, keeping close to the light, each dragging a heavy watertight container of equipment and supplies.
They reached the upward incline of the river’s edge, which sloped up to the perpendicular cement embankment above the surface. The motion of gloved hands and finned feet stirred up a silent storm of mud and grime. Carefully they backed away. The bobbing headlight slowly panned back and forth to help them get their bearings. They had budgeted half an hour to locate the secret door, buried now below six inches or more of silt. For that purpose each of the four now produced three-foot metal rods, with which in orderly pattern they began probing the grid of the bottom with slow up-and-down motion.
Above them onshore, two hundred yards or so south from the point where the river boat had mysteriously slowed, a figure moved leisurely along the sidewalk of Lambeth Bridge. A thick coat hung around his shoulders, and a wool cap shielded eyes and forehead. The only sign of life he showed besides his slow movement across the bridge toward Lambeth Pier on the opposite side, then back again toward Millbank, was an occasional orange flare from the end of the cigarette dangling between his lips. The smoke that followed from nose and mouth was quickly lost in the night.
Next to the cigarette, however, had one been able to probe close enough to see it, a miniature microphone was attached both to a speaker in one ear and a high-powered transmitter in his pocket. In his hands he carried a pair of binoculars. If danger appeared, all except the cigarette would find themselves at the bottom of the Thames in short order. For the moment they kept him in touch with the skipper of the boat, who had disappeared under him and upriver, and the four divers somewhere in the murky flow nearby. Not that the walker could do them much good from here. But if he detected any unfriendly activity from his riverbank vantage point, the others would at least have a few seconds’ warning.
No messages passed. The night remained quiet above and below.
All of London seemed quiet, calmly awaiting the coronation of its new king three days
hence.
Three
A dull clang sounded at the end of one of the probing rods.
Hand motions quickly brought the other three to the site. The light scanned the bottom. Several hands carefully brushed back the accumulated mud so as to avoid rendering further visual search impossible.
They needn’t have worried. They had discovered what they sought—a circular hatch about two feet in diameter.
Their leader now set about to open it according to the instructions for which they had paid dearly. Whether an inrush of water would follow, or whether the chamber behind the door was already flooded, he had no way of knowing.
He motioned to the others to back away. If the river poured in, one casualty would be enough.
In less than five minutes, with the equipment brought for that purpose, he had unfrozen the valve. Now he wrenched it counterclockwise with two or three jerking motions of the crowbar. He felt the seal break. No vacuum-rush from the river resulted. If the chamber behind it was full of mud, their mission would be over before it had begun.
He continued to turn the valve till the hatch was free, then pulled open the cover. He sent his light probing inside. The cavity appeared full of water and perhaps remnants of sewer sludge. He signaled to the others, then turned, gave his fins a few quick kicks, and slowly disappeared inside. One at a time his colleagues followed, pulling their bags in behind them.
The moment all were safely inside the decompression chamber and past threat of detection in the river, three more lights burst on. The last now closed the hatch behind them, turning the inner valve tight. At the far end their leader had already located the drain valve, while a third quickly went to work to loosen the large valve-wheel on the hatch leading to the network of tunnels that would take them to their destination.
Almost instantly the thick, sludgy water began to recede. In another five minutes they were able to remove headgear and again breathe air that did not come through rubber tubes. Stale air, to be sure, but now they could get rid of their diving equipment.
Hastily they pulled off oxygen tanks and wetsuits, stashing them for later. One by one they climbed out and into the first of many tunnels they would explore that night.
One minute later, the walker outside on Lambeth heard a single message through his earpiece.
“We’re in.”
Four
Far to the north, unaware of the events in progress destined to change his life forever, Andrew Trentham drove through the night toward his home in Cumbria in the north of England. He had spent that same morning in the very building under which these clandestine events were now taking place. For it was in Westminster Palace that Andrew Trentham served his nation and his constituents as a member of Parliament.
At present, however, Trentham was not thinking of his duties in the House of Commons, his role in Tuesday’s coronation, nor the election that would follow a month or two afterward.
In his memory loomed the faces of two women.
The one he loved, yet without knowing how to express it. He would see her not long from now, and was not particularly looking forward to the meeting.
The other he thought he loved. Only hours before, he had intended to seal that love with lifelong commitment. Her words from today’s luncheon date rang over and over in his brain.
“I’m sorry, Andrew,” she had said, “but I am going to have to break it off.”
He had sat momentarily as one stunned. As he stared across the table, his fingers unconsciously fidgeted inside his coat pocket with a tiny box. It contained the ring he had planned to give her that day.
Had she had some premonition of what he was about to do? How could she possibly have picked that very moment to deliver such a devastating message?
“But . . . but what are you saying, Blair?”
Bewildered, he fumbled for words. “What do you mean?” he went on. “Why . . . why now?”
“I think it’s best we do not see each other for a while,” she replied coolly, her deep blue eyes not quite meeting his. “I need some time to think.”
“Think,” he repeated. “Think about what?”
“About us, Andrew.”
“What about us? I thought—”
“Please, Andrew,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to argue with you. I’ve considered this for several days. I’m convinced it’s for the best. At least for my best,” she added.
He had glanced away, shaking his head in disbelief. How could she sound so cold and distant? Suddenly this woman across from him had become a stranger.
Trentham sighed, trying to force himself back to the present. Now the other face returned into his mind’s eye—his mother’s. She had always approved of Blair, even pushed him subtly toward deeper involvement. He knew well enough that she would not be pleased with news of their break-up.
He did his best to concentrate on the road ahead of him. The memory of today was too painful. He didn’t want to think about it.
But he couldn’t help it. He had to think about it. Never had anything so jolted him. How could he have so misread the signs? The engagement ring still lay at the bottom of his coat pocket.
Had he been a fool all along? Or had something suddenly changed in Blair’s life that he was not aware of? If so, why wouldn’t she tell him?
He was glad it was the weekend. A day or two in the country might not remove today’s sting. But of one thing he was certain—he couldn’t face throngs of people just now.
Tomorrow he would go for a long walk in the hills. That might be the tonic to put this unexpected emotional catastrophe behind him . . . if he managed to break it to his mother in a way she could accept without conveying by her silence that she blamed him for what had happened.
That’s the one thing he didn’t need—one more aspect of his life for her to disapprove of.
Five
In the tunnels beneath the Palace of Westminster, the four black-clad figures hastened toward their appointment with antiquity.
They needed no map to negotiate the maze. This intricate network of passageways had been drilled into their brains during the year of preparation for tonight’s historic theft—the preparation for which had begun a week following the Queen’s announcement. That had been the moment they knew the Stone would be brought again to England and thus give them their opportunity.
The equipment they carried was heavy but necessary for what would follow. They had now left that portion of the maze which had formerly been part of London’s sewer system and were walking upon a relatively dry, rocky surface.
This portion of the tunnel had been dug almost sixty years before, during the war, as an underground refuge and means of escape should German bombs threaten while Parliament was in session. But it had never been used for such a purpose. Instead, it had been walled up in the early 1950s and since then nearly forgotten. But that had not prevented the Irish Republican Army from learning of its existence and gradually developing elaborate and accurate drawings of the maze with the thought on the part of its more radical element of one day blowing up the entire Palace and the members of Parliament with it.
Cooler heads, however, had prevailed. The plans had eventually come into the hands of other conspirators with their own ideas for changing the political face of the British Isles. That their plan was less violent in nature did not mean that, if successful, it would not have equally widespread repercussions toward the nationalistic ends its people sought.
Arrived at length at the end of the passage, at a point slightly north of the Jewel Tower between it and the Millbank, the four walkers stopped and set down their equipment.
It was ten fifty-three. They had allowed three hours for the task of boring through approximately two hundred twenty-five feet of dirt and rock to a point that would bring them directly under the Abbey. They had already traversed about six hundred feet from the tunnel entrance. Quickly and silently, three sets of hands began assembling the various arms and levers of the borer, while the other two put toge
ther the engine and compressor to drive it. Thanks to Chunnel technology and the resources of their financial backer, their equipment was state of the art. They had no doubt they would arrive at their destination under the Abbey ahead of schedule.
Outside, the river-walker crushed one cigarette under his foot and lit another. As he did, a few more words came through his earpiece. He took in the information, then signaled the boat, which was by now docked upriver to wait.
“Ferguson,” came the voice over the radio in the galley where the leader of the expedition lay.
He sat up, grabbed the microphone sitting next to the radio, and acknowledged the call.
“They’re about to begin drilling,” said the watcher.
“Where are you?”
“On the bridge.”
“Make your way up Millbank, then. Any activity otherwise?” asked the man called Ferguson.
“Don’t see anything.”
“How about the river?”
“Only the Fuel and Lubrication Services boats.”
“Anyone on them?”
“No one. They’re all moored in a row. Otherwise quiet as a tomb.”
“Just make sure it stays that way. Let me know if there’s a change.”
Six
Outside the Palace of Westminster, Big Ben struck eleven o’clock.
In her residence the Speaker retired to her bed. In those portions of the Palace which concerned them, custodial and security staff went about their business and rounds.
Shortly after the ringing of the half-hour thirty minutes later, a dull sound reverberated through the basement regions of the parliamentary buildings in a direction that seemed to come from underneath the Victoria Tower. Briefly the ground shook. As no one was present in the lower level, however, it was scarcely heard.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 2
