No Way Out (21 page)

33

“I
can’t believe all these closed-circuit TV cameras,” Vail said as they passed beneath another mounted device on Portugal Street.

Reid shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “You know they’re not all controlled by Scotland Yard. Or MI5, for that matter. Most are private.”

“But law enforcement can tap into them if needed.”

“Kind of, yes. It takes some doing. Not as easy as you might think.”

“
Legally
, it takes some doing. Hacking in, not so much.”

“Right,” Reid said with a laugh. “Legally. But we aren’t hackers. We take the proper route.”

“When you say, ‘we,’ are you talking about Scotland Yard or MI5?”

Their eyes locked. “You know?”

“I know. I just found out, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Feel better? How would you feel if
your
cover was blown?”

“Your cover isn’t blown, Reid. Your assignment is safe with me. In fact, it explains a lot. Like why you lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie to—” He stopped himself and said, “Guess I did, didn’t I? It was necessary. I’m sure you understand.”

Vail made a face. “Whatever. Now that I know, it’s not important.”

“We’re here,” Reid said, stopping on Portsmouth Street, in front of an oddly shaped white and green building.

Vail craned her neck to look at the hand-lettered sign that read:

She turned around in a circle, as if looking for a lost item. “We’re here…where? All I see is an old store.”

“Oh, it’s much more than that. It’s old, yes—about five hundred years. More recently it was a custom shoe shop, and then an antique and modern art gallery, but its owners now lease it out. They sometimes do book launch parties, art exhibitions. A friend of mine set up shop here about nine months ago selling specialty costumes.”

Reid reached for the door handle of the green-painted wood door. Vail stopped him.

“Costumes. You’re kidding, right? You said you knew a way out of this mess.”

“That’s not what I said. I said I thought I knew a place that might be able to help, and that’s what this is. Like it or not, you’ve been photographed all over the city from just about every angle. Your location can now be tracked. You need some kind of disguise or these people are going to keep finding you. They may anyway, but at least we can take away one of their tools. You said it yourself—we’re the only ones who
legally
tap into the closed-circuit network.”

The unmistakable scream of sirens blared a few blocks away. Vail shared a look of urgency with Reid, and she removed her hand from the door. Reid pulled it open and they walked inside.

Wide dark brown wood plank floors, recently refinished, dominated the room. A subtle mustiness tickled Vail’s sensitive nose, but it was not bad for a structure that has been around since the 1500s. Off to her left, a wood staircase rose to the second floor, while a red brick-mantled fireplace stood several feet to her right.

A middle-aged woman with brunette hair pulled up in a bun descended the stairs. “Well, if it isn’t Scotland Yard come to pay us a visit. Looking for a Halloween costume now, inspector? Your timing’s a little off.”

“Elizabeth, always nice to see you.” Reid hugged the woman, then stepped back and gave her a once-over. “You’re looking good.”

“Nice of you to notice.” She glanced at Vail, lingering on the welts on her face, then turned back to Reid. “I’m guessing there’s an official reason for your visit.”

“As a matter of fact…” He hesitated a moment. “Anyone else in the shop?”

Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. “Just the three of us. Why?”

“We need to do a little undercover work, I’m afraid. So we’ll be counting on your discretion.”

“You’re talking to
me
, Clive. You needn’t ask.”

Vail caught the “Clive” reference.
These two were clearly friends, perhaps more.

“You haven’t been around in a while.”

“No,” Reid said, examining his shoes. “Sorry about that.”

“And you haven’t returned my last couple of calls.”

“Guilty again.” Reid managed a weak smile. “Things are complicated, Liz, and quite frankly, now isn’t the time. But how ’bout we grab a round next week? Or dinner.”

“Dinner sounds smashing.” She gave a quick glance at Vail. “So tell me what you had in mind. For you—or your colleague here?”

Vail stepped forward. “My friend and I need to change our appearance. He’s big, about six-three. Extra-large, I’d guess. We need something simple but effective. Something that can hide our faces. My red hair.”

“The cameras,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am,” Elizabeth said as if it was a sour lemon. “This really is official.” She appraised Vail a moment, then said, “It’s gotta be a crime to hide that beautiful hair of yours. But let’s see what I can do.”

DESANTOS HAD ONLY ONE option. He had to get to the ramp before the bobbies and CO19 did—because it’d give him a chance, slim though it may be, of getting to Portugal Street, where he needed to end up. Unfortunately, there weren’t many places along the way to hide from the officers deployed to corral him. At least, not without some kind of head start.

He would worry about that later. Right now, he had to put some distance between himself and the police before they drew down on him. Once that happened, his entire mission was in jeopardy.

DeSantos hit the ramp as several coppers began screaming at him, and just as the three security guards poured out the LSE Library doors. Two stepped in front of him—if they used Tasers he was in trouble—so he lowered his shoulder and bull-rushed them, sending both men sprawling.

DeSantos lost his footing and nearly took a header on the pavement, but regained his balance and hung a right onto Portugal Street. This is where it got dicey—as if it wasn’t before—because he was completely exposed. Although there were multiple alleys, he didn’t want to get in a foot chase through the streets because the area was maze-like and he was afraid he would get turned around.

He had to get to the pub.

The good news was that it was only a block away. The bad news was that it was a block away. If he didn’t do this right, he could lead his pursuers to Vail.

He broke into a sprint down Portugal and, eschewing the bar’s entrance nearest him, planned to hang a left at the light post ahead and enter the establishment on Portsmouth, through the wood and etched glass side doors.

VAIL AND REID WALKED into The George IV Pub and found a handful of patrons—primarily graduate students watching a football match, or soccer game in American parlance, on the television. Reid shared a laugh with the bartender, who apparently recognized him. Vail jabbed him with an elbow. “Small talk later. We’ve got an appointment,
Clive
.” She forced a smile.

“Right. Right you are. Excuse me,” Reid said. “We need to use the loo.”

We? Jesus, man, can you sound more suspicious?

He led the way to the brown metal door as the approaching police sirens wailed louder.

“That can’t be good,” Reid said. “Hector?”

Vail clenched her jaw and looked over her shoulder, through the spacious storefront windows. “Hope not.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Follow the plan. Let’s get inside. Hopefully he’ll find his way.”

They descended the three steps and as Reid started to enter the code into the electronic keypad, DeSantos burst into the pub through the side door.

Thank God.

“Now would be a good time,” DeSantos said as he approached. He came up behind Vail and said, “Gun squad’s hot on my tail along with a bunch of very angry bobbies.”

“Christ.” Reid fumbled with the keypad, cursed, took a deep breath, and then started over.

DeSantos crouched low to prevent officers from seeing him—and noticed Vail’s stuffed Old Curiosity Shop bag.

“Tell me you didn’t go shopping. Are you out of your mind? This is your idea of evading trained assassins?”

Before Vail could respond, Reid pulled open the short door, revealing a serious-looking man in a dark sweater. “Get in here. Quickly.”

They shuffled inside the dark stairwell, Vail nearly slipping on the narrow, grimy steps.

“Walk with care,” their guide said.

Yeah, no shit.

“Here’s a torch,” the man said as he handed back an extra flashlight. “There’ll be electricity in a bit. Don’t want any light seeping through the doorway into the pub.”

Vail held her light so that Reid and DeSantos could catch some of the beam’s expanse. “When was the station closed?”

“Depends on what section you’re talking about,” Reid said. “There are three different parts. You’ve got Platform A and its connecting areas, which were shuttered in ’94. Those are in pretty decent shape, and they get used once in a while for filming movies. Then there’s Platform B. Those sections opened in 1907 and closed in 1917—fascinating to visit in their own right. You’ll see some of it as we go through.

“But we’re going to a section not too many know about, unless you’re an Underground archivist—because it’s a section that was never completed. Most of it’s pretty rough, because, well, it’s old, and because they just stopped building those areas in the middle of construction. It’s like the boss blew the whistle, the masons shuffled out, and that’s how it stayed till the Security Service walled it off and fixed it up to use as a safe house of sorts.”

As they followed their guide, they reached an area brightly lit by fluorescent fixtures. Vail shut her flashlight and said, “Just a guess. This is the section closed in ’94.”

“You must be a detective,” Reid said. “Right you are.”

They continued on, moving into another section that looked like it was from an earlier era—because, as Reid had explained, it was. The corridor was well lit but narrow, and they had to walk single file. Vail felt a damp sweat blanket her forehead and neck.
Another claustrophobic dungeon. How many of these does England have?
She stopped and Reid bumped into her.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

You can get through this. Keep moving, keep your mind on the objective. What’s the objective? The director general.
“Nothing.”

“She’s got a problem with tight spaces,” DeSantos said.

“I’m fine,” Vail said between clenched teeth, pressing forward, keeping her mind off where she was.
A hundred feet below the surface, in a tomb of cement and masonry—stop it!

Bare brick poked through crumbling rust-colored walls. They passed a half dozen doors on both sides of the corridor; a couple were open and revealed small rooms.

“What is this place?” DeSantos asked.

“Old offices,” Reid said, “from World War II. Parts of the station were also used as a bomb shelter when we were being attacked. I think they even brought some exhibits from the British Museum down here to protect them from being destroyed.”

“That’s correct.” This from their guide, who had fallen silent for most of their journey.

They passed into an area that still bore remnants of the original platform décor, a cream and green tile motif, with hand-painted maroon and tan signs.

The corridor expanded into a platform-wide cavity with an arched roof. But before Vail could express relief over getting out of the cramped tunnel, they stepped into another narrow hall and descended steps littered with loose electrical wiring and chunks of cement.

The man led the way through a locked door that brought them to the terminus of the platform, where the train tunnel began. The railway stretched into the distance, beyond the reach of Vail’s flashlight. Electrical conduits snaked along the brick facing above the mouth of the bore and disappeared inside, along its curved walls.

“How much longer?” Vail asked.

“Almost there.” Reid motioned to her flashlight. “Keep it on. We’re about to enter the section that was never finished. Until we get to the area the Service uses, it can be a little dangerous.”

A
little
dangerous? That’d be an improvement over this entire UK trip.

They walked up a flight of stairs, avoiding the discarded construction debris, layers of decades-old dirt, and thick grime that lined the sides of each step.

They emerged in a tunnel that was conical in shape, its walls roughened, unfinished concrete. It appeared as if the next step in the build-out would have been the installation of hundreds of yards of green and cream tiles—something that never occurred.

The man led them to an area where the room opened up into a large chamber. Several desks and chairs were set against the wall, and a laptop sat on two of them beside a stainless steel equipment box placed in front of a man with a full head of silver hair, combed back. His suit was dark and impeccably pressed. The red tie screamed “power.”

Aden Buck, MI5 director general.

He rose from his seat and moved out in front of the desk. Two large men joined their circle—agents, guards, Vail didn’t know. But their roles were clear.

“You’re late,” Buck said.

“They encountered a bit of resistance,” Reid said.