Thistle Hotel
High Street, Kensington
Carson and I went downstairs for breakfast about nine or so. Afterward, on our way out, the concierge at the near desk flagged me down. I had a package.
It was FedEx, and it was my files on both the Skripkin case and on that terrorist incident we’d had back in 2002. It must have weighed ten pounds. The attached slip told me that it had cost $128.00 to ship it. That doesn’t sound like all that much, but our average postage budget for a month at the Nation County Sheriff’s Department was about $30.00.
We hustled it right back up to the room, and I emptied out my carry-on bag and inserted the files. Carson thought the cost was funny.
“I can just see Lamar hand delivering letters all over the county because you spent three months postage!”
“No,” I said. “It’s part of the annual budget. He’ll wait till I get back, and have me do the hand delivery.” I was only half kidding.
I called Blyth’s office, and told the woman who answered that my files had come, and that he could contact me via my cell phone. I also told her that I’d have the files with me, so we could drop them off any time today.
“You’re not gonna lug that around all day, are you? Seriously?”
“Safest place,” I said.
“What, with all the pickpockets in London?”
“We run into Fagan, you distract him, okay? While I run off?”
“No, really, Carl. Is that safe?”
“I feel better about it this way.” We went back downstairs, and hiked west on High Street to the American Express currency exchange.
Jane and Vicky were in class, so we had the morning and the first half of the afternoon to ourselves. We decided to head over to the Imperial War Museum because we couldn’t think of anything constructive to do without blowing our pledge to secrecy.
We found our way to the Lambeth North station on the Bakerloo line, after taking an unexpected excursion to a place called Willisden Junction, in the opposite direction from our destination. It pays not only to read the damned signs, but to study the Underground map posted in the cars, as well.
I like riding the tube, though, so I didn’t consider it time wasted. My phone rang just as we got headed back in the right direction.
“Yeah?”
It was Blyth. “I understand your files have come?”
“Yes!”
“Good. From the volume of your voice, I’d say you were somewhere in the tube.”
“We’re headed,” I said, more quietly, “to the Imperial War Museum. Just wanted to see it.”
“Excellent choice. How soon will you be there?”
“Ah . . . we’re just pulling out of Willisden Junction, so . . . what? Thirty minutes?”
There was a pause. “What on earth are you doing in Willisden Junction?”
“We got on the wrong train,” I said, and got amused stares from three or four of the nearest passengers.
“You certainly did. Why don’t I meet you at the museum in an hour? Give you time to see a bit of the place.”
“Sure, fine!” I said, yelling again as we accelerated.
“Under the big guns,” he said.
“Which ones?”
“Can’t miss. . . .” And I lost the connection. I hoped I could find the right big guns, and told Carson as much.
I needn’t have worried. There were these two enormous 15 inch guns at the entrance. The placard told me that they were 54 feet long, weighed in at 100 tons each, and since they were mounted at an angle, thoroughly dominated the landscape.
“Think these are the guns?” asked my sarcastic little partner.
We wandered into the museum for about twenty minutes, and then came back out just in time to see Blyth and Trowbridge coming up the walk under the guns.
“Why don’t we go on in,” said Blyth. “We can sit in one of their offices, I’m sure, and look the files over. Perhaps find some coffee or tea.”
He greeted a man who looked like he was in charge as “Freddy,” introduced us as a “pair of my American friends,” and Freddy very obligingly ushered us upstairs, and into an office. It was his, I think.
We had coffee as we went through the files. When Blyth got to Mustafa Abdullah Odeh, he looked up.
“I know of him,” he said, pointing to the name. “He had a connection here, as well. I didn’t know he was involved.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The FBI didn’t want his name out. I don’t know how they accomplished that, but they did.”
“You just quietly take him into custody,” said Trowbridge.
“Well, yeah. But I shot him.”
“What?” He looked truly startled.
“I didn’t kill him,” I said. “Just shot him in the leg. But he got treated, at least at first, in a local hospital.”
“Why did you shoot him?”
“It says here,” said Blyth, “that he was pointing a shotgun at you at the time.”
“Yeah. And I was pointing my gun at his buddy, who was sort of on the floor with an AK-47 he couldn’t quite get to. I pretty much shot Odeh because the other one couldn’t’ really get to his gun . . . it was sort of fast, you know?”
“It must have been exciting,” said Trowbridge, with just enough sarcasm to get his point across without offending.
“No. It just sort of happened. No satisfaction, really. No sense of doing some sort of righteous deed. It just had to be done.”
“I’m sure,” said Blyth.
“What happened to the other man?” asked Trowbridge.
“He didn’t make it.”
“You killed him, then?”
“No.” I grinned. “To be absolutely honest about it, I ran out of the building as fast as I could after Odeh went down. FBI sniper took the other guy out when he came outside with the AK and started shooting.”
“Oh.” This time Trowbridge sounded a little disappointed. I did notice that Blyth was grinning, too.
“I would have shot him,” I said, still with a grin, “except I was hiding behind a tree by a hog lot, and I don’t think I could have hit him from there. It was hard enough just seeing him.”
“Tales of the Wild West,” said Blyth. “You should write a book.”
“Not on your life,” I said.
Chapter 18
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Down Street, London
09:04 Greenwich Mean Time
We sighted Alice standing out in front of the old station when we were nearly a block away. We waved, and she did, too.
The entrance to the abandoned tube station turned out to be painted red brick, with the actual entrance door on the right, and a place called the “Mayfair Mini-Mart” occupying the left half of the building.
An older gentleman in a blue sweater came out of the mart, and walked right up to us.
“My name is John Hicks,” he said. “I do some of the guided tours of the tube stations. Glad to be of help.”
Hands were shaken all around.
“Your barrister here,” he said, referring to Alice, “tells me that you’re looking for possible clues?”
“That’s right,” I said. Good old resourceful Alice. “Our missing friend, Emma, has been here on a tour before.”
“So have we,” said Vicky, indicating Jane. “It’s a fascinating place.”
“Oh, indeed,” he said, busily unlocking the entrance. “Quite a history. I’ll just tell you about it as we go. That way you don’t have to ask questions, and if there’s anything like a clue, just tell me to stop,” he said, cheerfully. “Just to start us off, this is one of the stations designed by the famous Leslie Green. Very recognizable.” He returned his attention to the door, and seemed to be having a little difficulty with the lock.
Alice, who was wearing black slacks and a black windbreaker, motioned to the backpacks that Jane and Vicky were wearing.
“You’ll be staying, then?”
Jane laughed. “No. But we just brought some stuff
we might need.”
“Well, then, let’s have a scout,” said Alice. “Assuming we can gain entrance.”
There was a rush of air as the door opened.
“Overpressure from trains,” said Hicks. “It will also be very noisy. The main Piccadilly track runs right past, of course . . . ,” and the rest was lost as he entered the building.
There was also, I noticed as we descended a concrete stairway to the next floor, a strong smell of the general tube traffic. Oil, grease, hot metal, a little ozone, and kind of an indefinable mustiness permeated the place.
“Now do be cautious,” he said, as we reached the top of a spiral staircase. “Stay to the outside, if you would, please. The widest portion of the steps. It would be all too easy to slip.”
That sounded like good advice, especially from the man at the bottom of the file, who would be wiped out if somebody at the top tripped and caused everyone to come cascading down on top of him.
The walls were done in maroon and a cream colored tile. Well, maybe cream colored. They could have begun life as white, I thought. This station was old.
In contrast, the caged aluminum stair looked almost new. Like all spirals, it narrowed considerably toward the center. The outside made particularly good sense for those of us with the largest feet. I did sneak a look over the inside edge, near the top, as we went down. The shaft was fairly well lit, and seemed to go down a good 75 feet.
“The stair is kept in good repair,” came wafting up from below me, as there was a pause in the noise of passing trains. “This would serve as an emergency exit for passengers between Hyde Park Corner and Green Park. For that same reason, the lighting is maintained.”
That made sense. It also explained the white arrows on green background signs pointing up, and the legend, FIRE EXIT.
“How you doing, Dad?” Jane knows I have a problem with heights.
“Fine. Do we have to use these to come back up?”
“Yep. This one, matter of fact.”
“Then ask me that on the trip back,” I said. As I get older, my knees start to give me trouble after a while on steps. I’d already lost count, but there had to be between 75 and 85 steps on this stair. “Is there another level down?”
“There’s but one platform level,” said Mr. Hicks. “Just served the Piccadilly line, you know.” There was an audible rush of air, sort of a deep, wheezing moaning that got progressively louder, announcing the approach of another train. “It was built in nineteen oh. . . .” His voice was drowned out again by the rumbling and whoosh, as the train went by down below us. Several seconds later, as the noise subsided, and the air rushed back past us to fill the under-pressure in the tube, he was still talking. “. . . Churchill in the early days of the War. Before the Cabinet War Rooms were done. He hated the place.”
I took my digital camera out, and snapped a shot down the stair.
“They originally used lifts,” he said. “Those were disabled years ago. Too dangerous, you see. We do sometimes have unwanted guests. Mostly homeless people, but sometimes young people. Mostly hooligans. They paint things on the walls. Well, I suppose they need something to entertain themselves.”
Mr. Hicks apparently talked all the time, and not always to us.
“The maintenance crews winkle ’em out,” he said, in a voice lowered enough to make me strain to hear. “Bless ’em.”
Another train came by. I kind of hated to miss Hicks’ monologue.
I was surprised to find there were doors along the descending shaft, better than halfway down. One was just a doorway, to an empty room. The others, Hicks opened for us. They were, well, vintage bathrooms. Steel looking fixtures, very grimy.
“You can see how much dust there is here,” he said. “With the doors closed there the moving air from the trains doesn’t dust things off like it does elsewhere.” He turned to us. “Some say that Churchill used this bath, in the early days. Can’t prove it, but it’s what’s said.”
I noticed Jane peering into the two toilets. She saw me looking at her, and moved back toward me. “Just looking for signs of recent use,” she whispered.
I decided that I’d better get more into the act.
“So, it should be difficult to tell if there have been trespassers? I mean, not much chance of foot tracks in dust or anything?”
“Only here,” said Hicks. “Were you thinking that someone could use this for passage?”
“We’re not certain just what we expect to find,” I said.
“Some of us think they might have kept her here for a time,” said Jane.
Mr. Hicks thought about that one for a moment. “I’d not consider that likely, Miss. But I suppose that we need to look at ‘possible,’ don’t we? I mean, since the Yard doesn’t seem to be able to find her anywhere else. But the maintenance crews store things here, and come through from time to time. And there’s the monthly inspection by the safety lot. To make sure the way is clear for the exit. But they certainly don’t go everywhere. . . .”
He was interrupted by another train’s passage. They went by here at full tilt, and were a whole lot louder than they were in a functioning tube station.
After the noise subsided, he said, “There are nooks and crannies . . . do you wish to concentrate on those?”
“Yes!” said Jane.
Well, that settled it. I think we could have learned a little more on the way, but Mr. Hicks was on the scent, so to speak.
We went down another concrete stair, and onto the old platform area. We hardly paused, but Mr. Hicks did say, between passing trains in the adjacent tunnels, “The track area has been paved over, as you can see. It was for secretarial personnel during the war.”
The platform looked to be about a hundred yards long, and there was another flight of concrete steps toward the middle. That seemed to be where we were headed.
“This is the bridge,” said Mr. Hicks, “that crosses the east bound Piccadilly line. That’s the line this station was originally on. . . .”
I was looking for footprints, along with Jane and Vicky. Nothing looked particularly fresh, thought the dust wasn’t very thick. You could see the traces of prints, particularly the types with soles I referred to as Waffle Stompers. They were just faded, though, as though the dust had had several weeks to re-settle since they were made. The floor tiles were cream and purple, and the purple segments were very good for checking the prints.
“You see anything, Dad?” Jane’s voice sounded anxious. She apparently didn’t see anything fresh.
“Not really . . . but, boy, this place is sure big enough.” I said that to give her ample credit that there was plenty of room to build a theatrical set that would represent a small room.
“Yeah,” she said, sort of distractedly, “like I said. . . .”
We were just coming down the steps, after crossing the bridge, and were nearly on the second platform that would have accommodated trains running east, when Jane and I both saw the fresh prints.
Tennis shoes, both sets of them.
“Jesus Christ, Dad,” she said, in a normal tone of voice. “Look. . . .”
“Yeah.” Now what? Either they were workers, or maybe some homeless denizens of this place. But they sure weren’t Emma’s tracks, and by deduction, certainly not those of her abductors.
We all stopped, and got an extra minute or so to think as another train went whooshing and roaring by. By the draft, and the sound, there was an opening on this side of the tunnel that connected to an active track.
“Are they closer, now?” I asked Mr. Hicks, as the sound subsided.
“Indeed. The emergency entrance to this area is right over there . . .” and he pointed to an alcove on our right.
As it got progressively quieter, Alice said, “Do you recognize those tracks, sir?”
“No, but then I probably wouldn’t,” said Hicks. “The workmen usually wear boots . . . are those boot tracks?”
“No,” I said, quickly. “Those are tennis shoes.”
/> “Trainers,” said Alice.
“How odd,” he said, and began to walk right over them.
“Sir,” I said, touching his arm. “We need to be careful . . . they might be evidence of something.” I had to play the role.
Carson was giving me a look as if to say, “Evidence of what?” But he stopped just before stepping on them himself.
I asked Jane if she had a pad and pencil. She did, and I made a rough sketch of the prints. “Anybody got a ruler?” Vicky did. A very small tape she said she carried to use when shopping for antiques for her mother. Cool. I noted the dimensions, and then placed my pencil down beside the tracks, and took a couple of photographs.
“Just don’t sharpen this pencil,” I said.
“Why?” She took it from me, and put it in her pack.
“I just used it for scale. Sharpen it, it looks smaller, and the size of the shoe print increases. . . .” I chuckled. “I speak from experience.”
Yet another train roared through the active tunnel, as we moved toward another alcove on our left.
“These are the old WC’s,” said Mr. Hicks. “No lights in here to speak of, so be very careful where you step. . . .”
As he said that, and another train roared right behind the last one, I thought I saw an abrupt change in the color of the wall just inside the WC entrance. I blinked, and it didn’t change again. By that time, Mr. Hicks, Carson and Jane were already around the corner, with Alice close behind. I went next, followed by Vicky.
I turned on my flashlight, and was just turning the corner into the restroom itself when I distinctly heard Mr. Hicks say, “Who are you?”
At the same time, Jane yelled, “Dad. . . . !” and Carson hollered “Look out!”
Somebody was suddenly running out of the WC entrance, and heading right at me. I shifted my weight to block him, and he swerved, and without really thinking about it, I thrust my flashlight with my right hand, and speared him in the forehead as he was passing me. A shot like that is almost impossible to block, even if you can react in time. All you can really see is the small end of the flashlight, and that for just an instant before it smacks you in the head. It sure as hell got him. The blow almost sprained my wrist, but he hit the floor on his back with a very satisfying thud. I found myself looking down at a broad face with glassy, crossed eyes, and a half-moon shaped cut almost dead center in his forehead that was just beginning to ooze blood and get bluish at the edges. There was a large folding knife on the tile beside him, and I kicked it away, and started to lean down when Jane screamed, “Dad!” from deeper into the unlit room. I left the guy, whoever he was, laying where I’d knocked him, and went thundering into that dim, echoing place. Any other sounds were overwhelmed by another train, but I saw a short, thin man take a swing at Carson, who jumped back out of the way. The man had a knife, too.
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