With Norse deciding what he was going to pay and Devene taking his cue from the one clearly in charge, Ian grabbed the iron rail and hurled his body up and over.
He fell the three meters down, hoping to heaven the longboat would be there. He slammed onto the cabin roof feetfirst, then recoiled, losing his balance. He grabbed onto a short metal rail and held on as his legs swung out into open air. His feet grazed the water but he managed to pull himself up as the boat cleared the bridge and continued its cruise down the canal.
The big man with black hair stood at the stern navigating the wheel. “Thought you could use some help.”
He glanced back and saw Norse leap into the air, trying to duplicate what he’d just done. The man’s body hurled down the three meters and found the stern. But the boat’s owner rammed an elbow into Norse’s chest, sending the phony inspector into the water.
He watched as Norse surfaced and climbed from the canal onto the bank.
The lighted bridge was now fifty meters in the distance.
It disappeared as the canal doglegged right.
The last thing he saw was Gary Malone in the clutches of Devene. Why had Gary not jumped? He couldn’t worry about that now.
He had to go.
He searched the path ahead and spied another lit bridge. This one wider, stronger, made of brick. Cars moved back and forth above. As the boat eased toward it he leaped off onto the grassy bank. He heard his rescuer call out as he rolled onto the towpath.
“Where you going? Thought you wanted to sail?”
He stood and waved goodbye as he scampered toward a metal ladder and climbed to the street. Traffic whizzed by in both directions. He crossed the roadway and found refuge in the doorway of a closed pub. Two potted plants shielded the niche from traffic.
He shrank to the ground and gathered himself.
The acrid odor of London soaked his nostrils. He kept a close eye out for the blue Mercedes, but Norse and Devene would not assume he’d stay in the area, particularly after making such a bold escape. He caught the enticing aroma of fresh bread from a bakery a few doors down, which only aggravated his hunger. He’d not eaten since the little bit of lunch offered on the flight hours ago. People occasionally passed by on the sidewalk, but no one paid him any mind. Few ever did. What would it be like to be special? Perhaps even unique. He could only imagine. He’d quit school early, but stayed long enough to learn how to read and write. He was glad for that. Reading provided one of his few joys.
Which brought to mind the plastic bag Cotton Malone had carried.
His things.
A look was worth the chance.
So he fled the alcove.
Five
LONDON
6:30 PM
BLAKE ANTRIM CLIMBED FROM THE CAB INTO THE MISTY night. A storm had arrived an hour ago, draping the city in a cool, soggy blanket. Before him rose the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and he hoped the weather would discourage the usual throng of visitors.
He paid the driver, then climbed broad concrete steps to the church’s entrance, the massive wooden doors easing shut behind him. The last gong from Big Tom, the clock that filled the south tower, completed its announcement of the half hour.
He’d flown over immediately after speaking to his agent on the ground, utilizing a State Department jet from Brussels to London. On the short flight he’d reviewed all of the reports on King’s Deception, refamiliarizing himself with every detail of the operation.
The problem was simple.
Scotland planned to release Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, a former Libyan intelligence officer convicted in 1988 of 270 counts of murder for bombing Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. In 2001 al-Megrahi was sentenced to life imprisonment, but now, after only a few years behind bars, he’d contracted cancer. So, for so-called humanitarian reasons, the Scots were going to allow al-Megrahi to die in Libya. No official announcement of the release decision had occurred as yet, since the highly secret negotiations were still ongoing. The CIA had learned of the proposal over a year ago and Washington had already voiced strong opposition, insisting that Downing Street stop it. But the English had refused, saying this was an internal Scottish affair in which they could not meddle.
Since friggin’ when? the diplomats had asked.
London had been meddling in Edinburgh’s politics for a thousand years. The fact that the two nations were united under the mantle of Great Britain just made things easier.
But they’d still refused.
Al-Megrahi going home to Libya would be a slap in the face to the 189 murdered Americans. It had taken the CIA thirteen years to apprehend the accused, try him, and obtain a guilty verdict.
Now to just let him go?
Kaddafi, Libya’s leader, would rub al-Megrahi’s return in Washington’s face, only amplifying his position among Arab leaders. Terrorists around the world would be fortified, their causes becoming that much more important in light of a weak America that could not even keep a friend from turning a murderer loose.
He unbuttoned his wet overcoat and approached the high altar, passing a side chapel where red-shielded candles sparkled in the amber light. His agent had selected this locale for their meeting because he’d been working in the church’s archives all day, using false journalistic credentials, searching for more information.
He followed the south aisle to the base of a spiral stairway and glanced around one more time. His hopes about the weather seemed to have been granted. Few people milled about. Thankfully, Operation King’s Deception had, so far, generated no British interest.
He stepped through an archway to a staircase that corkscrewed a path upward. He passed the time climbing by counting. Two hundred and fifty-nine steps came and went beneath his leather soles before he reached the Whispering Gallery.