Alicia Myles 2 - Crusader's Gold (15 page)

Already, his face was swollen, one eye swelling. Riley didn’t hang around over the other side. Already, he was disappearing around the far edge of the abandoned station. Alicia made to chase after him as the train passed.

A shot rang out, stunning Alicia. A puff of mortar exploded beside Riley’s right ear, making him stumble. Alicia turned to see Caitlyn holding a rifle.

“Good try,” she said. “Now let’s go get him.”

“Forget it,” Crouch said. “Bastard will already have had an escape route planned. Three or four even. He’s a part of the landscape.”

“But he’s severely debilitated,” Caitlyn said, coming up now. “Alone. Badly wounded. He won’t last long.”

Crouch closed his eyes tightly. “You don’t understand. Riley has as many contacts as I do, only all his are bad. He’ll survive. And he’ll be back. Maybe alone, but even that’s a vicious prospect.”

Alicia squinted over at Healey. The young man was sitting up, listening. “Well,” she said. “What say we gather up our wounded and our motivation and get on a plane to London?”

“I say let’s just get the hell outta Paris,” Russo mumbled, still on his knees.

“Need a hand, Robby?”

“No I friggin’ don’t.”

“Haven’t seen you knocked over before.”

“Shut it.”

Crouch placed tentative hands on his face. “How do I look?”

“My first thought is pepperoni pizza,” Alicia said graciously. “But no. No. Seriously, it’s not that bad. The facial swelling will ease in an hour or two. The eye—a bit longer.”

“Think I’ll survive passport control?”

“Meh. Just bribe ‘em.”

“So what are we waiting for? London’s calling.”

Crouch tried to force his mind away from Riley and their checkered past by concentrating on their unfolding treasure hunt. The Hercules Tarentum had evidently been designed alongside Lysippos’ Horses and had remained almost undivided throughout history. And once Napoleon had been defeated at Waterloo, clearing the way for the Horses to be returned to Venice, who would stand in the way of the victor claiming the spoils?

Admittedly, Crouch didn’t know an awful lot about the Duke of Wellington. The enormous arch that sat at the center of Hyde Park Corner was named after him and the house just across the road—Apsley House—had been his residence. With an address of Number One, London it was clear how high in esteem the British had held him. But, standing at the heart of London and a true British Heritage site, what did it have to do with Hercules and Napoleon? Maybe nothing . . . the arches were still their main focus. It would take much further delving but Crouch did know that the Wellington and Marble arches had been moved sometime in their history and that the foremost had been designed as some kind of grand entrance to London.

And of course, there was a quadriga on top—a four-horse chariot.

With the plane in the air, Crouch and his compatriots found themselves drifting. Exhausted through battle and city-hopping and mind-draining deliberations they fell into deep, dream-filled sleep. Crouch achieved no such release. After dozing for a few minutes he came wide awake, agitated by memories he had thought long dead and buried.

Following the bombing in India, Riley had once again dropped off the grid, leaving Crouch with nothing beyond infinite scenes of horror. Trying to reconcile that night with the man he had previously liked and worried over took years, and even then doubts remained. Not excusable, but had Riley acted under duress? Was a terrorist cell holding someone he loved, someone Riley had never disclosed? Crouch didn’t see Riley again for many years after that night but heard about his further exploits through the interdepartmental grapevine. Riley always remained high on the watch list but never again came to the in-field attention of the SAS.

Now Crouch doubted himself. What the hell had he been doing allowing this man to roam free all these years? Should I have pushed it? Certain terrorists needed making an example of—Riley was surely one of those.

Crouch tore his mind back to the present as their pilot announced the descent into London. Focusing again on the arches he thought that the links were good, the final resting place of the Hercules close at hand. If these treasures continually passed into the hands of conquering leaders—which history said they did—then the Hercules would still be somewhere in London. The Duke of Wellington’s descendants would never give up such a magnificent treasure. And to think of all the many thousands who passed through those arches every single day . . .

Crouch felt a tremor of excitement, pushed all thoughts of Riley and Kenzie aside, and watched the descent into London City Airport.

Kenzie wondered silently as to the perils of folly. She had found it relatively easy tracking Crouch to France, but after the fiasco back in Vienna she’d had to quell a little revolt. The men of her inner circle helped, those who survived, and she put her survival down to the ruthlessness with which she had subdued the rebels.

Pacing a hotel room, she waited for news.

Windows looked out across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower, the view not even a small distraction for Kenzie. She lived to acquire wealth and desirable objects, not to stare at them. Since arriving in France she had recruited more men, and another to listen to the newcomers’ conversations, a little mole. It was her way. She kept order and she kept her life. Everything was good.

Except for Crouch and his little band of brothers.

In a normal world they might even elude her, but this was not normal, this was her world. Kenzie had kept it quiet even among her inner circle, but one of the men she employed was a previous Ninth Division operative. Battered, bruised and left for dead in the ruins of the old HQ he had risen disgruntled, resentful, and sought out some extreme alternative employment. After bumbling around for several months he had been brought to her attention. Kenzie recognized the potential and snapped him up in a minute—ex-government employees always came in useful.

Three men shared the hotel room with her, two of the three remaining members of her inner circle and the Ninth Division traitor—Jaden Sheppard. The latter was privy to several of Michael Crouch’s lines of contact and was monitoring them all.

“London,” Sheppard told her. “We couldn’t find them in France but I know where they will be in London.”

Kenzie stared sightlessly out of the window. “When? Are they already in the air?”

Sheppard nodded. “Even if we left right now we’d be two hours behind them.”

“Luckily,” she stared hard at him, “I have people in London. Ancient relics are big business among the city’s greedy bankers and businessmen. Crouch can’t have found his treasure yet . . .” she tailed off, her mind flicking back through the years and to the events that had led her to this. Once a loyal operative of Mossad she broke hard and went rogue when an op went wrong. The fallout had killed a man she loved and, later, her family. At twenty eight she had seen the faults inherent in government, officials on the take, and people who should be looking out for her, mentors, superiors, equals, reveling in all their squalid dishonesties. Breaking from her heart to her brain she made the decision to work only for herself and to never trust one single person ever again.

There was a knock at the door, an intrusion. One of her acolytes rose, checked through the peep-hole, and opened it. Her missing inner-circle member entered looking a bit red in the face.

“Everything okay?” Kenzie asked.

“Aye,” the rough-looking Scotsman growled. “Everything’s great. Just a wee problem to sort, that’s all.”

“More dissension among the ranks?”

“You got it, Kenzie. New boy by the name of Gilmore. Thinks he’s gonna be running the whole crew soon enough, he does.”

“Of course. There’s always one. Always. Did you make an example of him?”

“Not yet. Thought I’d check with you first. Don’t wanna run afoul of that blade ye always keep handy.”

Kenzie eyed the shining, curved blade close at hand. The weapon gave her power over all aspects of her life—it was a deterrent, a life-giver, a confidence restorer and a menacing threat. It was her backbone in life, her perversion in passion, her twisted child.

The katana was all. It should be worshipped. Knowing what would happen she reached out and held it high, expecting her men to bow their heads and smiling when they did so.

“Make arrangements to fly straight to London,” she said. “And let Gilmore run his mouth for now. We’ll deal with him in the UK and it’ll hit any would-be insurgents all the harder.”

The Scotsman looked happy, a rare event outside payday. The thought made her think of the very near future when they caught Crouch in the act of uncovering millions of dollars worth of riches. It made her think of the worship, respect and loyalty it would implant into her men. It made her think of other things she could aspire to do outside this world of backstabbers and thieves.

It made her dream. She sliced the katana through a series of complicated moves.

The future was at her doorstep. All she had to do was cross the threshold.

London basked in shameful sunshine, ensuring the streets were filled with tourists and locals, businessmen out for brief walks and office workers heading for the closest Pret or Eat or any number of thousands of small lunchtime eateries. Traffic clogged the roads as much as people jammed the walkways, its roar and hum and constant throb the beating heart of the thriving city. Alicia strode ahead, exiting the underground station of Marble Arch and stopping briefly to get her bearings. Humanity flowed around her.

“That way.” Crouch pointed and she saw the ceremonial arch briefly to their right before it was obscured by several passing double-decker buses. The team set off and Russo fell in alongside.

“Sure hope the boss has a plan. It’s not like a supposed treasure that has remained hidden all these years is gonna jump up through a trapdoor somewhere.”

Alicia shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Umm, for instance?”

“Well, you not fancying a roll in the sack with me for a start.”

“You think that’s strange? Boy, do you have an odd view of the world.”

“Sure I do. You’re right, I do have an odd view of the world, but that’s what makes me me.”

“I think sometimes it’s all an act.”

Alicia gave neutral laugh. “When? And why?”

“When you want to distract somebody from discovering the real you.”

“Shit, Russo, what are you? A closet psychiatrist?”

“I studied psychology in college.”

“No way! Do not tell me you’re another freakin’ geek too.”

“Nah. I’m fucking a little with you. I dropped out of college after starting my degree. Six months. Pissed the hell outta my folks.”

“Joined the Army? I was there at sixteen and have been running ever since. Hey, look at us—both survived this far.”

“And for much longer.”

“Statistics state we don’t live long enough for this to be the right way, Russo. Shouldn’t it be about having fun? You know—one life, live it.”

They paused at a set of traffic lights that would let them cross the busy junction at Edgware Road to reach Marble Arch. Russo nudged Alicia. “I thought we were having fun.”

“I guess we are, but it’s all going to fall apart,” Alicia said seriously.

“Ah. Your breakdown. It doesn’t have to be so hard.”

“If I don’t fall hard I doubt that I’ll get back up.”

Russo hushed as they crossed the road in front of traffic that was straining at the leash. Ahead, the arch and the area around it sat waiting. Crouch and Caitlyn were striding forward, already scanning the structure as if the Hercules might mysteriously and suddenly be revealed. Healey stayed close to Caitlyn as if appreciating her energy and cheerfulness.

Alicia stopped before the white-colored arch, gazing up toward its uppermost reaches. Bright blue skies dazzled her eyes. The top was flat, no quadriga or any other statues sat up there. Four thick columns stood across its width and the only markings she could see were several carvings above the gates. The gates themselves were open wide, admitting the masses. Smaller gates stood inside archways to either side. After a while Crouch suggested they walk through to the other side.

“Not sure what I expected,” he said. “I realize we need more in-depth research but it’s always good to see your current nemesis in the flesh.”

The other side of Marble Arch was as ornate and unremarkable as the first. The carvings did not reveal Hercules, or even a horse, although some did suggest a Roman flavor. It was Caitlyn who opted to form a new plan.

“Over there,” she pointed across Park Lane, “is a small pub with free Wi-Fi.” She squinted. “Let’s hit the keys and also see if there’s a way to gain entry to these arches. We’ll check their history. Their provenance. Those who are associated with them. Something has to turn up.”

Crouch nodded. “As ever your enthusiasm is our guide.”

The pub appeared busy from the outside; all the small, unsteady tables were crowded with people enjoying loud conversations, each one trying to outdo the next, but once inside the shaded interior Alicia found they had their pick of tables. Crouch chose a semi-circle booth in the far corner and they were soon comfortably seated with waters and sodas in hand and nibbles on the way. This was about as close to normality as Alicia ever came and it made her slightly uncomfortable.

“Let’s get on with it,” she said. “I don’t exactly feel safe here.”

Russo peered at her. “In that odd way of yours I know exactly what you mean. Give me a dark alleyway, an Uzi and a set of night goggles any day.”

Alicia raised her glass in salute. “To the simple pleasures of hunting desperados and gangsters.”

Russo clinked. “And to destroying them all.”

Healey joined in at the last moment, clinking hard. Caitlyn had Crouch’s attention further around the highly polished table. “So, Marble Arch was actually designed to be the state entrance to the three-sided courtyard at the newly rebuilt Buckingham Palace. Clearly, a structure given great honor. It stood there until 1851 when it was relocated here.”

Crouch tapped at the screen. “This is interesting. Many sculptures and friezes were made for the arch which subsequently were never used. A frieze of Waterloo and the Nelson panels were later used at Buckingham Palace. Others were sent to the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square. Again, based on the Arch of Constantine it commemorated the Duke of Wellington’s victories against Napoleon. It is hollow,” he stressed excitedly, then looked disappointed. “Three rooms inside were used as a police station until 1968.”

Alicia sipped her water. “That doesn’t rule out the possibility of more rooms.”

“No, but it’s so small. There would be no easy way to view a statue inside so what’s the point? The inner rooms are public knowledge too. And it’s situated at the heart of a large traffic island.”

“As is Wellington Arch,” Caitlyn pointed out. “Why would they do that?”

“A good question,” Crouch said. “Does it say why they moved the arch away from Buckingham Palace?”

Caitlyn flicked through various pages. “Not conclusively and not officially. Another dead end. They built a new east range on Buck Palace which today is the public façade, helping to shield the inner façades from view.”

“These people just love creating conspiracy theories,” Healey said with a grin.

“Unnecessarily,” Crouch agreed. “Through all their pomp and circumstance. But I do wonder about their positioning of Marble Arch . . .”

Alicia agreed. “So incongruous,” she said. “And hard to reach for many.”

Food arrived and talk halted for a while. Caitlyn flicked around her tablet as they ate, but came up with little else. When they were done Crouch proposed they walk down Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner and take a look at the second triumphal arch. The trip was uneventful, though noisy, and resplendent with old hotels and frontages, an odd petrol station built on a steep slope and several underground parking garages. Beyond the Park Lane Hilton the road curved toward the traffic lights that looked over Hyde Park Corner.

Alicia followed her colleagues down the long, prominent road and then down the steps that led to the underpass, thinking all the while of their quest, their enemies, her future and her few real friends. Beauregard was also on her mind—the ally who might be an adversary or might be about to switch or . . . shit, who the hell knew who the Frenchman really was?

Along the underpass they passed two homeless men wrapped in blankets, one conversing with a tourist about the problems faced by vagrants—how the government just refused to help them because they were too interested in housing immigrants.

It made some sense to Alicia. There was no money in helping the destitute.

She dropped money into an upturned hat, then found herself traversing a tiled passage on which several caricatures of the Duke of Wellington were displayed. Crouch stopped to view them but said nothing. Caitlyn went ahead with Healey, the two enjoying a private conversation and leaning into one another. As Alicia climbed and then reached the top of the steps the Wellington Arch came into sight to her left.

It reminded her of the Arc du Carrousel, though its façade was nowhere near as ornate. It stood grand, stunning, empowering, an epic commemoration to victory, to triumph. Surmounting it was the grand quadriga, the original vision of its designer, a colossal bronze depicting Nike, the Winged Goddess of Victory, descending to the Chariot of War. The largest bronze sculpture in all of Europe. To Alicia it evoked feelings of wonder, but they were mixed with disquiet. The memorial to her right, the Royal Artillery Memorial with its list of many names was far more meaningful to her.

“It’s also hollow,” Crouch told them. “There’s a museum inside, fairly big, but nothing more.” He turned on the spot, taking in the surrounds, the sunlight sparkling off the windows of Apsley House—the residence of the Duke of Wellington—the traffic peeling around Hyde Park Corner and vanishing up Piccadilly toward the Ritz and down Pall Mall toward Buckingham Palace.

“This feels . . . right,” he said. “How many people standing on the grass here or passing under this arch might guess a priceless treasure lies somewhere about? How many privileged people mock their ignorance?”

“But where could it be?” Caitlyn said. “I see nothing useful.”

“Nor would you. It is time we dug around a bit more. There’s the treasure of a lifetime lying around London’s busy streets, my friends, I’m sure of it. And even more—I’m sure that we’re going to find it.”