The way to Gary.
Or, at any rate, the only one he had.
GARY HOPPED OFF THE CONCRETE PLATFORM AND FOLLOWED the smartly dressed older man into a train tunnel. Lights attached to its concrete walls burned every fifty feet. He heard a rumble and felt a rush of air. The older man stopped and turned, motioning behind them.
“These tracks are still active. Stay to the wall, but be careful. The electricity in the rails can kill.”
He spotted a light out the tunnel’s exit, past the new station platform, into another tunnel entrance on the far side. Its brightness grew, as did the vibrations. A train suddenly appeared on the tracks, speeding toward them, passing in a roar, the cars full of people. They hugged the wall. In a few seconds it was gone, the rumble receding, the air still again. The older man resumed walking. Ahead, Gary spotted another man, waiting beside a metal door.
They approached and stopped.
“The boy goes no farther,” the older man said.
“He’s with me,” Antrim said.
“Then you go no farther.”
Antrim said nothing.
“Your father is waiting for you at St. Paul’s Cathedral,” the older man said to Gary. “This gentleman will take you there.”
“How do you know my dad?”
“I’ve known him for many years. I told him I would deliver you to him.”
“Go,” Antrim said.
“But—”
“Just do it,” Antrim said.
He saw nothing in Antrim’s eyes that offered any comfort.
“I’ll catch up with you in Copenhagen,” Antrim said. “We’ll have that talk with your dad then.”
But something told him that was said only for the moment, and Antrim had no intention of ever coming.
The other man approached and slid the backpack from Antrim’s shoulders, unzipping and displaying its contents to the older man, who said, “Percussion explosives. I would have expected no less from you. Were these used to breach the tomb of Henry VIII?”
“And to kill three Daedalus operatives.”
The older man cut a long stare at Antrim. “Then, by all means, bring them along. You may have need of them.”
Antrim faced Gary. “Give me the remote.”
The idea had been for Antrim to tote the explosives, with their detonators active and in place, while Gary kept the remote, the hope being that no one would search a boy for a weapon.
But that had apparently changed.
“I want to stay,” he said.
“Not possible,” the older man said, motioning to the second man, who led Gary away.
He yanked free of the man’s grasp.
“I don’t need your help walking.”
Antrim and the older man entered the metal door.
“Where does that go?” Gary asked.
But no answer was offered.
IAN WAS PROUD OF HIMSELF. HE’D MANAGED TO QUICKLY STEAL a travel card and used the Underground to head across London to a station just east of Blackfriars. He’d avoided Temple station since that was where Malone and Richards would have exited, directly adjacent to the Inns of Court. Instead, he would approach Blackfriars from the opposite direction. On the trip over he’d thought about what to do once there, unsure, but at least he was not waiting around in some hotel room.
He hated that he’d hurt Miss Mary. He’d seen the look on her face, knew that she did not want him to go. Maybe it was time he listened to her and trusted her judgment.
He spotted the construction site, traffic hectic in both directions on a boulevard that fronted it on two sides. The dome of St. Paul’s rose off to his right. A plywood wall formed a makeshift barrier around the work site, but he managed to slip through an opening, past crabbed branches of bushes choked with trash. He saw no one, but kept among the equipment and debris, careful not to stay too long in the open.
He stepped into the main building and crept deeper inside, grit crunching beneath his shoes.
He heard voices.
Scaffolding rose to his right, a stack of crates and boxes nearby.
He dashed over and sought cover behind them.
KATHLEEN ENTERED THE BLACKFRIARS CONSTRUCTION SITE from the west, making her way toward the new station building. She carried her gun, out and ready. Malone had not wanted her with him. Mathews had made clear that he was to come alone. Instead, he’d told her to check out the site and be prepared. Mathews had said that Antrim was headed below Blackfriars station, and the video they’d watched confirmed that Antrim and Gary Malone were at a construction locale. It stood to reason that this was the place, so Malone wanted it reconnoitered. After that, he’d told her, improvise.
She proceeded with caution and entered, finding her way through a series of platforms and corridors. Tripod lights were on, and she doubted they’d been left burning all weekend. From everything she’d read about this project it was a seven-day-a-week venture, time being of the essence. So where were the workers? SIS had surely taken care of them for the day.
Inside the new station building she spotted something familiar.
From the video.
She stared down an opening in the floor to another level, where Underground tracks ran. Ladders allowed access, just like the one she and Malone had seen.
Then a noise.
To her right.
On her level.
She headed toward it.
IAN SPIED GARY MALONE BEING LED BY ANOTHER MAN. TALL. Young. A copper, no doubt.
“I don’t want to leave,” Gary said.
“This is not up to you. Keep moving.”
“You’re lying to me. My dad’s not at St. Paul’s.”
“He is. Let’s go.”
Gary stopped and faced his minder. “I’m going back.”
The man reached beneath his jacket, produced a gun, and pointed the barrel straight at Gary. “Keep. Moving.”
“You’re going to shoot me?”
Gutsy. He’d give Gary that. But he wasn’t as sure of the answer to that question as Gary seemed to be.
His mind raced.