The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy

by Duncan Simpson

  SEMTEX-H

  PLASTIC EXPLOSIVE

  ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed, falling back on his haunches. With his feet kicking out in thin air, the readout clicked down to seven. Pivoting on his outstretched arm, Blake scrambled to his feet. Without thinking, he crouched down and took hold of Mary under her arms and pulled her with all his might away from the backpack. At first, Blake’s action caused the dog to snarl, snapping its teeth ferociously in his direction, but as he continued hauling Mary towards the parked cars, it seemed to sense a more impending danger in the air.

  Momentarily Blake lost his footing and stumbled backwards, his hand fumbling to regain its grip under Mary’s arm. The movement dislodged something from her coat pocket. It hit the pavement with a clatter and began to roll along the pavement. As it rolled, a kaleidoscope of colours radiated out from its surface in all directions. Encrusted in precious stones, the rod sparkled under the streetlights before coming to rest inches away from a drain cover. Straining every sinew in his body, Blake hauled Mary’s dead weight off the pavement.

  Four …

  As the outline of Blake and the homeless woman dropped between two parked cars, Blake called out to the dog.

  ‘Run!’

  Three …

  The dog stopped barking and glanced back at Mary in silence.

  Two …

  A jolt of panic, spiked in the dog’s eyes and it turned and began to run towards the parked cars.

  One …

  In the backpack, a simple electrical connection was triggered, initiating a controlled reaction with the detonator buried deep within the block of Semtex.

  The light came first. A searing flash of energy. Then came the explosion, like a shock of white lightning hitting the ground. A colossal eruption of shattered glass and metal ripped through the air, smacking into the sides of the parked cars, raising them off their wheels and smashing windscreens. Jagged pieces of metal and concrete screamed past Blake’s head, his body splayed across Mary’s to protect her from the blast.

  In that moment, Blake felt strangely calm, disconnected from time and space. He remembered turning his face away from the office building, snapping his eyes shut and feeling the shockwave punch into the side of his body.

  Chapter 39

  Mary’s body moving underneath Blake brought him back to the present. As he struggled to open his eyes, he could feel Mary’s rattling breath against his cheek. He rolled onto his side and took a moment to recover his senses. Blood ran into his open eye. He struggled to his feet and steadied himself against a vehicle. The scene that greeted him was a picture of pure carnage. A gaping hole the size of a small car had been blasted out of the side of the office building. A thick electrical cable hung down from the roof and danced in mid-air, sparks coming off its end like struck flint.

  Blake tried to take a step, but a spinning nausea gripped his stomach. His knees buckled and a cascade of broken glass fragments fell from his jacket onto the road. Drawing in long painful gasps of air, he struggled onto the pavement.

  Mary was up on her elbows, trying to shake the deafening ringing sound from her ears. The blast had jolted her out of her earlier seizure. Abruptly, her eyes jerked open. Her head quickly shot left and right in a desperate attempt to locate her canine companion. She tried to shout, but the breath had been well and truly slapped out of her body. Grabbing hold of a car bumper, she dragged herself to her feet next to Blake. She caught the look of concern in his eyes.

  Thirty yards further up the street, next to a half-felled lamp post, lay the crumpled, motionless body of the dog. The force of the blast had launched the animal through the air, and it now lay between the wheels of a large parked truck. The side panels of the vehicle were peppered with debris, and a wedge of concrete several inches across stuck out from the fuel tank. Petrol streamed down onto the pavement, and a dark shadow had already collected around the dog’s body.

  Blake blinked the blood out of his eyes and his brain switched into overdrive. Before he could move, a gust of wind rattled the partially toppled lamp post, sending splinters of glass down onto pavement. Its light began to flicker in unison with a strange buzzing sound from within, as if a large winged insect were trapped inside. Blake’s eyes quickly traced the line of the tilting lamp post down to its point of fracture about a metre above the road. Prostrate in a growing pool of petrol, the dog’s limbs twitched momentarily and then fell still.

  High above, a strong breeze buffeted the shell of the blown-out office building. The top section of the lamp post suddenly gave way, its pale orange light blinking as it hit the ground with a hollow ring. The freed section, still connected to the main post by two electrical wires, bounced several times before coming to rest twenty yards away from the dog’s body. With a fizzing death rattle, the lamp finally went out, plunging the area surrounding the animal into shadow.

  In that instant, Blake became aware of a sudden stillness; not the stillness of the dog’s body, but the stillness of a moment charged with danger. He launched himself from the side of the car and started running towards the dog. Mary gasped and pulled herself onto the pavement. With his feet crunching on shattered glass, Blake swerved around the foot of the lamp post just in time to see the pale blue light of a spark leaping across the small gap between the exposed tungsten filament of the shattered bulb and the pavement surface. Ignition was almost instantaneous and a circular edge of flame radiated out from the bulb like a shockwave. Blake sprinted at full speed towards the dog, the advancing edge of flame biting at his ankles. Giving it everything, he slid down by the side of the animal and, in one synchronised movement, used his forward momentum to roll the animal forward. The push was just enough to propel the dog out of the pool of petrol that had collected underneath it. At that moment, the advancing wave of flame met the pool of gasoline and erupted in a blaze of fire. With a final rally, Blake pulled himself and the dog further along the pavement, out of danger.

  The violent jarring of the dog’s body roused it out of its unconsciousness. Blake felt a wave of relief crash over his body as the animal staggered to its feet. Almost instantly it started barking towards Mary, who was taking faltering steps in their direction, her eyes glistening. The dog slowly moved forward, increasing its pace with every step. Blake looked on as the two friends were reunited in an embrace of tears and muffled growling.

  From the west end of Cannon Street came the sound of sirens. For a moment, Mary’s body went stiff, her eyes scanning the horizon for approaching vehicles. The sound was getting louder. She didn’t hesitate. Taking hold of Blake’s hand, she stared intensely into his sweat-drenched face.

  ‘There is no time,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Vincent Blake, I pray God will remember what you have done.’

  Blake began to say something, but she talked over him.

  ‘He is coming.’

  ‘Who?’ said Blake.

  ‘His shadow is everywhere. I can feel him getting closer.’

  Blake let go of Mary’s hand.

  ‘Look, I don’t understand any of this.’

  In his peripheral vision, Blake saw blue flashing lights appear in the distance.

  ‘Crossbones Graveyard, tomorrow at midnight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Crossbones Graveyard. I’ll explain everything then,’ she said, already stepping off the pavement.

  She turned back to him. ‘No police, or everything will be lost.’

  Blake watched wide-eyed as Mary and the dog hurried across the street. Within seconds they had disappeared into the shadows of a side alley, running along the side of a sports equipment shop.

  Blake walked several steps towards the incoming flotilla of emergency vehicles before dropping to his knees. It had been one hell of a day. As his fingertips tentatively examined a cut to his scalp, he noticed something glinting by the side of the pavement. Caught in the grate of a nearby drain lay a rod-like object, over a foot in length, its surface encrusted in precious stones. Blake’s heartbeat stepped up a gear. He
recognised the object immediately, though the last time he had seen it, he was fighting for his life in a secret chamber deep within the foundations of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  Chapter 40

  Milton wasn’t listening to the police officer at his side. Instead he was making a beeline for Blake, who was sitting on the edge of the kerb and wrapped in a silver space blanket. Without acknowledging the ambulance man cleaning the cut on Blake’s forehead, Milton dropped to his knees and locked eyes with his friend.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I guess.’ Blake grimaced with discomfort as the paramedic moved to tend to a deep scratch on his neck.

  ‘Fuck me, most people run away from trouble. You seem to be always running towards it,’ said Milton. ‘There’s going to be a shitstorm of trouble over this. Counter Terrorism Command have been dispatched.’ He looked like a man whose bag of woes had just expanded tenfold in the last ten minutes.

  ‘Counter Terrorism? This isn’t anything to do with terrorism.’

  Milton looked over Blake’s shoulder at the gaping hole blown in the office.

  ‘What the hell is it about then?’ he said, frustrated. ‘It’s turning into a bloody war zone.’ Milton checked the message that had just buzzed on his phone. ‘Lewis is on his way, and I need to give him something. If you know what’s going on, you need to tell me.’

  Tentatively, Blake brushed the side of his hand along his eyebrow. As he did so, a crust of dried blood tugged at the skin of his forehead.

  ‘It’s about a lump of rock,’ he said

  ‘What?’

  Milton wasn’t in the mood for cryptic clues.

  ‘The bomb was set for the London Stone. It was kept behind an iron grille in the side of that office.’

  ‘A lump of rock? Was it valuable?’

  Blake thought about the question for a moment.

  ‘Not conventionally, but there is a tradition that the city’s well-being is linked to the stone.’

  From Milton’s pained expression, it was obvious that he didn’t understand what his friend was talking about.

  Blake nodded thankfully to the paramedic, who was now busy tidying away the contents of his bag.

  ‘You need to get that checked out at the hospital,’ said the paramedic to Blake, who was getting to his feet and brushing himself off.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said as he handed back the space blanket.

  ‘I can’t tell Lewis that all this is to do with some old tradition. Where are you going?’ shouted the DCI after Blake, who was now walking towards the blown-out building.

  ‘I’m going to check it out. You coming? By the way, I followed Mary, the homeless woman here, before it was bombed,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  ‘Say what?’ said Milton, a deep line opening up across his forehead.

  The explosion had ripped a hole some ten feet in length into the fabric of the office building. Its innards were now spread out in a chaotic trail of destruction across the pavement and into the road. Stumbling over bits of plasterboard, brick and insulation lagging, Blake reached the gaping hole.

  He stepped over the mangled remains of the iron grille that had fronted the London Stone and protected it from the enquiring hands of passers-by. Disregarding Milton’s protests from over his shoulder, he peered into the breached wall. From the light of a single light bulb blinking on and off in an adjacent office, Blake could make out the shattered remnants of the London Stone. The force of the blast had smashed it into a thousand pieces spread out in a plume of white limestone fragments across the ground.

  Blake crouched down and reached in. With his hand at full stretch, he coaxed a piece of the shattered artefact into his fingers. After standing up and taking a couple of steps back onto the pavement, he examined the stone fragment in his palm. It was several inches in length and rectangular, its surfaces clean and white. As he turned it in his hand, a phrase emerged from the recesses of his mind.

  ‘So long as the London Stone is safe, so long shall London flourish.’

  An unsettling feeling descended through his body, as his brain spoke to him about the implications of the London Stone’s destruction: ‘And if the London Stone is destroyed, so will London.’

  ‘It’s not safe here,’ shouted Milton, his voice sharp with annoyance.

  ‘You’re dead right,’ mumbled Blake, as he dropped the stone fragment into his pocket.

  Chapter 41

  The front door clicked shut as Blake gently placed his keys in the soap dish perched on the hallway bookcase. He picked up a bright orange piece of paper on the doormat and turned it over. It was a mayoral election flier showing a smiling picture of Captain Sam Lambton with the headline ‘A New Direction’ adorning its top. Blake read the handwritten note next to the headline.

  Vincent, Don’t forget to vote (for Lambton that is!), Vijay Desai.

  Blake’s shoulders sagged an inch, and he placed the flier next to his car keys on the bookcase. Taking care not to make too much noise, he kicked off his shoes and headed for the living room. The stitches above his eye and forehead were stinging like hell, as the local anaesthetic had started to wear off. He scanned the room for an alternative source of pain relief. Rummaging in a cardboard box next to the window, he located a small bottle of whisky. After retrieving a mug from the kitchen and scrutinising his dressings in the mirror, he poured himself a generous measure of the amber-coloured liquid.

  Collapsing into the sofa, he took a long sip and breathed out the vapours through his nose. He rested the mug on his chest and closed his eyes in search of some rest, but he couldn’t switch off. All he could see was the intense flash of the explosion, as if the light had seared a white-hot disc into the back of his retinas.

  A head peered around the door. It was Alina.

  ‘Oh my God, Vincent, what has happened?’

  ‘I had a little trouble at work,’ he said with an embarrassed smile.

  Alina was wearing a pair of blue chequered pyjamas, the top half of the ensemble all askew to the bottom. The side of her hair was sticking out like the arm of a cyclist signalling to turn a corner.

  ‘I heard some noises. Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Blake said.

  ‘Are you sure? You don’t look very fine,’ she said, moving closer to examine the cuts on Blake’s face.

  ‘You think it’s going to spoil my rugged good looks?’

  ‘Can I ask, how did it happen?’

  ‘There was an explosion in Cannon Street. I was right next to it, when it went off,’ he said with faraway eyes.

  ‘Oh my, that’s so awful. You sure I can’t get you anything?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I think I could do with a cigarette right now,’ he said half-heartedly. ‘I haven’t smoked since my army days, but tonight has been a little …’ his mind grasped for the right word, ‘… challenging.’

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ said Alina with a shrug.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have asked. You’ve given up haven’t you? I saw your nicotine patch the other day.’

  For an instant, puzzlement darted across her eyes, then she lightly touched her stomach and grew thoughtful.

  ‘Yes, if I stay strong, no more cigarettes,’ she said finally.

  ‘How’s Sarah?’

  ‘She’s fine. After her homework, she went over to see Noorjehan. I think she’s angling for a sleepover soon. She had dinner there and was back by seven thirty. She went to bed early, something about a test tomorrow.’

  ‘Algebra,’ said Blake, taking a long draw of whisky. ‘She’ll kill it.’

  Alina crossed her arms and smiled.

  ‘Oh, and Rosalind is still out.’

  ‘Still out?’

  ‘She said she was going to a bar in Notting Hill to meet some friends.’

  Blake’s lips tightened, a shadow of anxiety tracing the outline of his mouth. ‘Okay, thanks for letting me know. You get to bed,’ said Blake. Alina turned towards the door, a yawn building in h
er jaws. ‘Alina,’ said Blake.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, stopping at the door.

  ‘It’s really good to have you here.’

  ‘It’s nice to be here. Good night,’ she said with a soft smile.

  ‘Night,’ said Blake, his eyes following her out of the door.

  Raising himself out of the sofa, he reached for the bottle of whisky. His attention now moved to the hard object poking at him from inside his coat. It was the rod. In the confusion of the bombing, he had grabbed it out of the road and slipped it into his pocket. Since then, it had worked its way through a hole in his pocket and lodged itself in the coat’s lining.

  After wriggling free from the arms of his coat, he patted down the material and located the end of the rod. He pulled it out and rested it on his lap.

  His eyes tightened with concentration at the strange relic in front of him. It measured about the length of his forearm and was made from a piece of twisted wood. The rod was tapered slightly at one end and its surface was inset with a dozen or so gemstones and two rows of Hebrew symbols. Blake turned the object in his hands. Several areas had suffered damage from the blast, particularly around the red gemstone set in the thickest end of the rod. The surface there was striated with wooden splinters, and the lighter wood just below the rod’s weathered exterior stood up in jagged shards. Blake shimmied himself onto the edge of the sofa to get more light, but as he did so he felt the staff’s centre of gravity shift in his hands. He gave a quizzical look and then gave the rod a gentle shake. This time Blake heard the faintest of rattling. He ran his fingertip around the object’s widest end. He did it again, this time while standing under the light hanging from the ceiling. There was no question; a faint junction line ran around the wood an inch or so from the end.