The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  She followed the torch light to the bottom, untied herself, then called up for the torch.

  “No. We need it here. I can light up the area. Keep going towards the centre. I can see a panel there, look!”

  Clarke stumbled across more metalwork, scraping her hands and knees and cursing at anyone that listened until she placed her bloodied hands on the plinth. It actually felt good, cold stone against raw skin. Here she was in the middle of a Napoleonic fortress in the middle of a river, at night, in the cold and remote salt marshes, yet only forty minutes from London.

  She hit the plinth with a large lump of stone. It resisted. She hit it again. Nothing. She took a deep breath and gaining a few extra inches in height, she drove the rock down onto the flat surface. It cracked.

  “It’s breaking!”

  “Good, keep going. I want us to get away from here soon. Hurry up.”

  “I hate you. I seriously hate you.” Clarke muttered under her breath, which filled the immediate area with vapour. It was getting colder.

  She hit it again, and this time it collapsed.

  “Shine the torch. Shine it!”

  Doto twisted the lens on the black torch until the beam narrowed and became stronger, lighting up a void that had remained untouched for nearly one hundred and fifty years. There was no stench of stale air or bones or dirt or old papers, not even a glint of a gold coin or a copper one come to that. It was a dark hole in a darker stone box in the perfectly formed circular basement of a Victorian sea fort.

  And nothing else.

  Clarke slumped a little, exhaled, feeling as let down as Doto was about to be. She called up to the two women who were looking down into the void. What she saw was Doto. Her eyes as black as a Barn owl’s. Impassive, cool, no they were cold, dead almost.

  Baker was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is the woman?”

  “What?” She’d let her go, allowed her to escape. It was a rare moment of inattention.

  “She’s going nowhere.”

  “She has the bloody boat!”

  “And I have the key.”

  “Then let’s get going, come on, the box is empty. It was a wasted journey. We need to get up river and meet your people and get the fuck out of here.”

  “There is no need to swear.” Doto began to pull Clarke up on the rope.

  “There’s every bloody need. OK? Every bloody need. I’ve risked so much for you.”

  “For us. Don’t forget this is for us. For our future.”

  “If there is one anymore. Doto I’ve got a bad feeling about this. This place, this whole thing. Really bad.”

  “Just climb.”

  Baker was running as fast as she could, across awful terrain, stumbling and cursing as she made a path back towards where she last saw the boat. She was crying, breathless, worried sick about her husband. Was he still alive? Was the boat still there? Why had no one come to their aid? When would this end? What if?

  She was caked in mud now, tiring rapidly, cut and bruised but more motivated than she had ever been in her life. Another hundred paces, then turns right, fifty more until ahead she began to make out the outline of the Medway Girl. It was quite the finest sight she had ever seen.

  The old girl had done it once back in the war, and now Jan needed her to do it again. Just one more time, you gorgeous thing. One. More. Time.

  She reached the boat and scrambled up onto the immaculate wooden deck, made her way quickly to Mick, who was cold to the touch. Despite the cold, she was warm, sweating profusely.

  She wept openly now, back on board their lifetime’s achievement, she felt safe. If it had to end now, that was fine.

  She grabbed the torch from the cabin and leaned down to him, shielding some of the light.

  “Mick. Mick, talk to me. Please say you haven’t gone, my darling. Please.” She waited in hope.

  Then he moved slightly, opened one eye and grinned.

  “Well, I can hardly go anywhere can I love, I’m somewhat stuck to the bloody boat. That bitch took the key, but there’s a spare behind the Dunkirk sign. Get it and let’s get out of here, just get out into the river and we’ll fire a flare to attract attention.”

  They needn’t have worried. From a few miles away, the Eurocopter had spotted them. The pilot had given Cade a crash course on how to use the onboard Wescam camera system. The light had really faded now, and there was nothing to see along the river apart from Roberts’ and his team, who were making waves and leaving a wake in the Medway. He could see them clearly, giving off just enough heat to attract the sensor on the camera.

  Then he scanned towards the island.

  “There. See it?”

  Daniel leaned forward, and the pilot scanned left.

  “Heat source?”

  “And it’s hot too.”

  “Someone has been running, Jack. See the brightness of the white shape? Could be a woman. She’s on a boat. There’s a lesser heat source too on the deck. What do you think?”

  “I think we go in closer and take a look.”

  Roberts was used to the chop now, leaning with the waves and forgetting about being sick. He was focused now, they could see the white boat ahead, backing out into the stream.

  “Get us alongside as quick as you can, Ralph.”

  Baker steered the old girl out into the channel, then began to turn into the rougher water. She could see the navigation lights on the Marsh Harrier. She knew the boat well, could tell by her outline that it was a friendly. She called up on the radio, but could barely form a word.

  “Ralph’s boat is ahead, Mick. We’ll be fine, just hang in there.”

  “As you wish my love. I’m fine. Just need to separate myself from this boat. Ha! Never thought I’d ever say that.”

  “Steady now…” said Roberts, suddenly a master mariner.

  Kent was an expert in most waters, this was a challenge but he was more than up to it. “We’ll come alongside and there’ll be a bit of noise, so get the fenders over the edge please team, I want to minimise damage to that old girl.”

  McGee joined Roberts along the deck and started tipping the white and blue fenders over the side, whilst Reddington did the same further up towards the bow.

  Kate Briton was on the phone.

  “Carrie. It’s me. No time to explain or suffer your well-deserved flak. I need your help.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m sure you’d like to.”

  “Maybe later. What do you need?” O’Shea flexed her fingers, sharpened a black and red-barrelled pencil and placed the graphite onto the paper, waiting.

  “I need you to get all police forces in the UK with old aircraft hangars to dispatch units to them, especially those in the East Midlands, Yorkshire and Humberside.”

  “Not much then. Do you have any idea how large an area that is?”

  “I do. But you’ll identify those sites very quickly knowing you, and with that charm and experience you’ll soon have the various forces eating out of your hand. Am I right?”

  She was. Clever girl.

  “Only look at hangars called T2 and B1. Narrow it down. The bigger the better. Those that look disused are more likely to be targets. I reckon there will be about thirty.”

  “And what are the boys in blue hoping to find at these mysterious wartime buildings?”

  “People.”

  “Alive?”

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  “British people? Prisoners? Enlighten me, Kate. I need more.”

  “Africans. Mainly female. Slaves by any other name.”

  O’Shea was quiet for a few seconds.

  “It’s true then? We are as involved in this trade now as we were hundreds of years ago? I feel physically sick.”

  “Not as involved as far as numbers are concerned, Carrie. But far more lucrative.”

  “What are they used for?” She didn’t want to know.

  “You name it. Highest bidder gets to pick, all online on the dark net. There’s an au
ction once a month.”

  “These people are arriving every month?” She was incredulous. “What about our border agencies? What about the locals? Surely someone has seen this?”

  “Money talks,” was all Briton could say.

  “Hope this helps Carrie? Sorry it’s not brighter news, but right now it’s something important you can do to help. We’ve got some more pressing things to do here.”

  “I wish I was there.”

  “I’m sure, but I know Jack is keeping you wrapped in cotton wool.”

  “You know that, do you?”

  “I do.”

  “He told you?”

  “He didn’t need to. We all know what happened last time you were allowed out to cause chaos.” It was supposed to be mildly amusing.

  “Too soon. But thanks. But when this is over, don’t think I’ll think better of you. And, before you go, while we’ve been talking Dave has run an open source check. There are hundreds of old airfields in that search area.”

  “Then drill down on the ones with the hangars I mentioned. They will almost certainly be the airfields that closed more recently. Even as far back as the seventies is recent.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been really helpful. For what it’s worth, Jason rates you highly. Remember that when you make your next major decision. And do not let him down.”

  “I’ll wear that medal with pride. Trust me on this one. Out.”

  The Harrier collided with the Medway Girl and Roberts, and the three female members of the temporary crew grappled with ropes and boathooks and anything they could find to haul the two boats together.

  “Go. Jump, get on board,” called Kent over the jarring wind. “Get them secured.”

  Roberts took the leap of faith and landed heavily on the wooden decking of the pristine river boat.

  “Evening all. DCI Jason Roberts, Met Police. Looks like you’ve had some fun.” It seemed the right thing to say until he saw Baker pinned to the decking.

  “Christ. You OK?” he yelled back across to the Harrier. “Ralph inform your people that we need an ambulance as soon as we get back to port.”

  He looked down at Baker, who was pale. “You got a foil blanket, Mrs.?”

  “Baker. Jan Baker. Yes, in the cupboard.”

  “Grab it and wrap him up soon as you can. We’ve got your boat under control now. You are safe.”

  He had no idea if they had or not, but he felt that the voice of reason was well placed. Sue Reddington had also made the leap from boat to boat and joined him, landing untidily in his arms.

  “Easy tiger. People will talk.” Roberts said in a theatrical voice.

  “Trust me, you’re not my type. Now, what’s the plan from here?”

  “Get the fuck out of here and get this man some medical attention.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” She knelt down at Baker’s side. She was back in Afghanistan, rubbing the blood between her fingers, checking his pulse, which was low, talking to him constantly and listening to his breathing, which was becoming slower.

  “You’ll be fine, buddy. Just need to get you warmer.”

  “Would be nice. I’m bloody freezing.” He was. Another hour at the most and he would be dead.

  “Got a saw on board?” She looked at Jan with a no-nonsense face.

  “Jesus! No! Please…” Mick Baker had only been frightened once before, many years ago. But this was different.

  “Get the saw. Now.” She nodded to Roberts, who nodded back, quite unsure what the hell she was going to do to the poor bugger.

  “You done this sort of thing before?” he asked, concerned.

  “Nope. There’s always a first time. She looked at Jan again. “Got any scotch?”

  Baker grabbed a glass and a bottle of Macallan Enigma single malt.

  “I don’t need the glass, my love.” She opened the bottle.

  “That’s two hundred quid. Was a birthday present from a friend. Use the cheap stuff at least.” Mick Baker appealed to the soldier.

  “Oh sorry, no, this isn’t for surgical purposes. This is for me.” She took a stout swallow of the expensive scotch.

  “Nice. I’m getting poached pear and chocolate, and a hint of dates. Lovely oak finish.” She took another swig and winked at him. “Here, want some?”

  Mick Baker snorted a laugh and drank for what seemed like five minutes. “Go on then, do your worst.”

  Reddington lined the saw up under his back and began to push and pull, hoping she was making progress. She’d never been a handywoman, but she was trained in both taking and saving lives.

  “Not much longer.” She sawed gently, timing the cuts with the sway of the boat, cutting through the pole until the saw became free again.

  “There you go. Now get him below deck and get him warm. Nothing to eat or drink, just monitor him.”

  Baker looked instantly brighter. “I thought you were going to…”

  “I know. Now respectfully piss off and get warm and don’t pull that out whatever you do.”

  “Let’s go!” Roberts shouted to Kent. He patted Reddington on the back. “Nice work.”

  “I’ve done worse.”

  “You have, but I suspect we’ll find a way of forgiving you.”

  “Forgive Kate first. I can wait.”

  Jan Baker came out to them. “He seems OK. A little warmer. Look, I haven’t told you why I’m here.”

  She spent a hurried few minutes filling them in with the basic story. No detail. It’s all she had time for.

  The chat stopped quickly when an intense beam of light swept down the river, lighting the tops of the waves, almost illuminating the riverbed itself.

  They heard the chop-chop of the rotor blades as the Eurocopter came in lower and into a hover a few hundred feet away.

  “Typical Cade, arriving in style.” He grabbed his phone and rang. Yelling over the noise of the wind and the engines.

  “Evening sailor,” said Cade with a smile. “I’m on hands-free. Speak freely and let us know what’s occurring down there in the maelstrom?”

  “Seems like our Black Mamba is on the island with Clarke. They were looking for something, right down in the heart of the fort. Apparently Doto lowered Clarke down into the very bottom. Very overgrown. She was looking for a stone plinth or box or something. Had a date on it. Eighteen sixty-”

  “Seven.” Denby smiled. “Eighteen sixty-seven. The year the fort was built. Designed to house two hundred men and cannons to protect the English port of Chatham from the invading fleets of the Dutch or Spanish or anyone else that thought they might have a go. Smashing building. Fort Darnett is opposite. Both works of art.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson!” yelled Roberts. “But it will have to wait.”

  Daniel shook his head at Cade. ‘Let him talk.’

  He knew when the old man started to ramble it sometimes led to bursts of clarity, and those moments were becoming rarer by the hour.

  “We chose the place as it was easy to defend, but harder to get to and the locals didn’t like going there because it’s haunted by the ghosts of soldiers and the hundreds of prisoners of war that were tipped over the sides of prison ships. And the date on that stone is when it was built alright. But you see, that piece of stone was dumped down into the bowels of that old place years ago. Kids probably, brave ones, so the story goes.”

  “Jack. Doto and Clarke are still there in the fort. Can you get close and light them up a little?”

  “Yes. But just let Tom finish…”

  “Thank you, young man. I can see it all so clearly.”

  He was being literal. The Nightsun lamp on the Eurocopter was powerful enough to germinate seedlings from a mile away according to the pilot.

  Denby stared down at the fort, lit up like a visitor's attraction. He was back there, on the ground, in the place itself, back on that night, breathing the sea air, surrounded by vulnerable people who needed him and feeling as guilty as a moralistic man ever could.

  “The
thing is it wasn’t kids that dumped that stone down there it was us. Call it a distraction…as if setting fire to a massive freight ship wasn’t enough.” He laughed, then shook his head.

  “No. What they were looking for is in a much simpler place. Eighteen sixty-seven. Eighteen steps inside the main door. Turn left. Sixty paces. Down a level and seven more, again to the left. It was clockwise, you see. No point in going back in in time was there?” He laughed.

  “And what’s there?” asked Roberts, straining to hear the conversation.

  “I’ve no idea, lad. It was a long time ago.”

  “Great. Thanks. Jack. You planning to drop off a welcome party? If so, I might join you. Kate can hold the reins here whilst Sue and I back you up.”

  “You armed?”

  “One flare gun.”

  “Nice. We’ve got a helicopter and a Glock.”

  “Excellent. I left mine in the car.”

  “Always prepared, eh, Jason? Ever the boy scout.”

  “Give us a signal and we’ll see what we can do to liven the island up a little.”

  “Roger. See you in…” He checked his watch, looked at the pilot. “Thirty?”

  The pilot nodded and started looking for somewhere to land.

  “It’ll need to be as hard as possible. Don’t fancy our chances of putting fifteen hundred kilos and a few million into quicksand in the dark. I’ve got a plan.” He performed what most people thought was witchcraft, moving one hand, then the other, feet too, and his head swivelled and watched, like an osprey out on a fishing expedition.

  “That’ll do just fine and fucking dandy, brother.”

  The Nightsun lit up the outer wall which had a solid roof, perfectly round just like everything else on these forts. And perfectly safe to touch down on.

  “In for a penny.” He lowered the aircraft down, adjusting the controls with a sensitive touch, using the wind to his advantage, a bit more power, another adjustment, closer now. Daniel called out what he thought was an accurate description of height, diminishing by the second.

  “Thirty, twenty, ten…”

  The Eurocopter was down, blades still spinning, causing a racket, the rotors still chopping against the wind which had increased with the arrival of a band of frigid rain off the North Sea.