Ryder Page 7

  “Fuck!” Raising the bottle over his head, he flung it into the gutter, where it smashed into a thousand pieces.

  Chapter 14

  “Thanks for coming, Eldritch.” Noel Malcolm rose from behind his desk. “Have a seat. Drink?” He gestured to the collection of decanters on a side table over which hung a large flag—white with a red cross. The flag of St. George. It was also the flag of England and Wales, symbolic of the movement to break up the United Kingdom and restore England as an independent kingdom.

  The home secretary was not his first visitor during the small hours, nor would he be the last. He was the most important, however. If liquor would help secure Eldritch’s support, Malcolm wasn’t going to stint.

  He anticipated a sleepless night—not that he could have slept; he was far too keyed up for that. Everything, his ambitions for himself and the country, depended on the next few hours. He glanced at the painting over the fireplace. The flag was one thing, but Harold’s own sword would be an infinitely more powerful embodiment of the spirit of an independent England. What was happening with Ryder? Where the hell was that slut Daniels? If she failed him…

  “Whiskey.” Eldritch’s reply cut across his thoughts. “Neat.”

  Malcolm dispensed drinks. Then he perched on the edge of his desk. “Susannah…terrible tragedy.” He injected a tremor into his voice, tried to sound humble. “I’ll have to continue…acting PM. For now…Not that I have any expectation—”

  “Of course. You’ll have my full support. I’m sure the whole country will be behind you. Nothing brings our people together so well as something like this. Princess Diana—”

  “Thank you, Eldritch.” Malcolm did not want to hear a comparison of Susannah Armstrong with the late royal. “It’s important the country, and the world, sees a united front from the cabinet. The last thing we want is a run on the pound.” Malcolm glanced at the painting again. Here goes. “What are your views on my bill? Today’s vote in the House?”

  The home secretary choked on his drink. “You’re not thinking of going ahead?” he sputtered. “Not after what’s happened!”

  “The business of government, of the country, has to go on. Susannah would be the last one to suggest we put everything on hold. It would seem like surrender.”

  Eldritch frowned deeply. “Susannah opposed you on this. You know that. She only allowed a conscience vote because she wanted you to see how little support you really had.”

  “What if I told you most of the cabinet favors the idea? The backbench, too. That most of them want to see an independent England, out of the EU and NATO.” Malcolm felt powerful. In control. With Armstrong gone, it was his time. It was all he could do not to smirk. “It’s an economic issue as much as a patriotic one, Eldritch. Scotland and Northern Ireland are a huge drain on the treasury. Everyone knows it. England—I include Wales as part of the historic kingdom of England—would be far better off without them. The Scots want their independence back and it’s high time we let the Irish unite. I say let them go.

  “The time has come to restore England to its historic glory—the England of Elizabeth I. The EU is falling apart—it offers us nothing except grief now, and continuing loss of sovereignty to Brussels and the European Court. And not just the EU. NATO, too. And the WTO. I want us out.”

  “But—”

  “Norman, our most prosperous days were when we set our own trade policies, with tariffs to protect our industry. In conjunction with the empire. I want those days back. So do the people. The English people.”

  “Sounds like a campaign speech, Malcolm. I don’t care what you say. When it comes to the crunch the cabinet will never support you. Nor the backbench. And certainly not the House of Lords. Susannah least of all. If you push this she’ll have you out.”

  “Susannah’s gone. I’m in charge now, Norman.” In his head Malcolm heard the sound of trumpets. Nothing could stop him now. Who was Eldritch? Nobody. A worm. He wouldn’t even rate a footnote when Malcolm’s biography was written. “The party is going to have a new policy: England for the English!”

  “What about the royal family? The queen will never accept the breakup of the United Kingdom.”

  Malcolm snorted. “Who says we’ll want to keep her? A new England might want a new monarch. A king perhaps.”

  Eldridge choked. “What are you saying?”

  Malcolm gestured to the painting. “When Harold was king of England, the monarchy wasn’t necessarily hereditary. It played a part, but the king was essentially elected from among the leading earls. By his peers.

  “People are tired of the current royal family, their shenanigans. They don’t have a role anymore. Beyond cutting ribbons and making pointless speeches. The people want a real king. A leader.”

  “You?” Eldritch’s tone was incredulous.

  “England could do worse.”

  The home secretary stood up, buttoning his coat. “You may be acting prime minister, Malcolm, but you still have to be confirmed by the party room vote in the morning.”

  “A formality. I’d like your vote, too, Eldritch. Think about it. Think about what I could do for the country. And you.”

  Eldritch shook his head vehemently. “You do this, Malcolm, and you’ll have a fight on your hands. From me, for one.”

  So Eldritch was an enemy. Malcolm knew how to deal with enemies. “You’ll resign, of course.” It would save having to sack him, which never played well in the press.

  The home secretary turned at the door. He held Malcolm’s gaze, then said, “Fuck you, your majesty!” He slammed the door behind him.

  The words your majesty were still ringing in Malcolm’s ears when, after a quick knock, the door swung open once more and Bebe Daniels entered his office.

  “You’ve got it?” He devoured Daniels with his eyes. The very sight of her never failed to send an electric surge straight to his crotch.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. Not yet. Ryder—”

  Anger boiled. He thumped his fist on the desk. “You stupid bitch! The Maltese Falcon is the key to finding Harold’s sword. I must have it.”

  Daniels hung her head. “I’m sorry, sir,” she repeated. “We’ll get it. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Time is what I don’t have. Find the Falcon! And bring me Harold’s sword!”

  “Sir? If I might make a suggestion?” Daniels was at her most submissive. “It would be useful…if I could have some help.”

  “What do you need? MI5 are already hunting for Ryder.”

  “Yes, sir, but if you’d add your voice to spur them on…I’m beginning to have doubts that Dame Imogen Worsley is making every effort to locate Ryder. They’re friends, you know. If Special Branch and Scotland Yard were looking for her as well…Local police forces, too.”

  “Go on.”

  After Bebe had explained her idea and left, Malcolm poured himself a drink. He took a long swallow of whiskey. He closed his eyes; conjured images of Daniels bent across his desk, naked…begging for it. He opened his eyes, pushed the images away, not without difficulty. He needed to make a call to the head of MI5. Eldritch’s wife. His mouth twitched. She hated him. Too bad. She’d have to do as he ordered. Once he was confirmed as prime minister she’d get the ax. Along with her treacherous husband. He checked the time. The foreign secretary would be waiting to see him. Philip Balfour had no love for Susannah Armstrong, either. He also represented a Yorkshire constituency in Parliament—like him. Malcolm smiled. Nothing like a Yorkshireman for putting England first. After Yorkshire, anyway. He looked at the painting. Stamford Bridge was in Yorkshire. In Balfour’s constituency, in fact. It was time to give his colleague a history lesson.

  Chapter 15

  Joram Tate was still chuckling as their taxi drew up at St. Paul’s Churchyard. Ayesha was mildly amused at the boyish delight he derived from the trick they’d played on their pursuers.

  It had been Lady Madrigal’s idea. They’d been about to leave, when Tatiana had peered out of the window and voice
d her suspicion of a black Range Rover parked down the street. Tatiana’s KGB-trained instincts were aroused; the car had been there for some time.

  “If it is the opposition,” Lady Madrigal had said, “they’ll be wanting that.” She nodded toward the Maltese Falcon. “If you take that carryall with you…it could come in useful as a distraction. It needs something to give it weight, though.”

  “I’d like to have been a fly on the wall when our bald-headed friend found that bottle of vodka,” Joram said as he paid off the taxi.

  “You’d probably have been swatted.” Ayesha pictured that image—not with any great horror. She was still pissed at the librarian for not revealing that he knew Lady Madrigal. “How are we going to get into St. Paul’s? It’s locked up for the night.”

  “Come with me and all shall be revealed.”

  “Fuck!” Ayesha stood her ground for a moment, then, murder in her heart, she followed Joram across the empty churchyard. It was devoid even of tourists. They skirted the brilliantly lit west front and the deeply shadowed north face of the cathedral. Inevitably, her thoughts flashed back to the previous Christmas, when, after a mad chase through the Roman catacombs that, unknown to the denizens of London, debouched below St. Paul’s, she’d witnessed the murder of an MI5 officer. He’d been shot in the head at the foot of the cathedral steps. Her jaw set tight. Things had got worse after that. A lot worse.

  As they crossed the churchyard, Joram drew a bunch of keys from his coat pocket. Selecting one, larger than the rest, he gestured with it toward a wooden door, scarcely more than four feet in height and almost invisible at the intersection of the north face and the north transept.

  “Do you have keys to all of London’s churches?” Ayesha asked him.

  “Just a few.”

  “All right. I’ll bite. How do you come to have a key to St. Paul’s Cathedral?”

  “The war.”

  “Which war?” This was said through gritted teeth. She pictured Joram lying on the ground, her booted foot pressing on his chest.

  “World War Two. The London Blitz.”

  “How does that explain anything?” Mentally, she used both feet, and pressed harder.

  “You’ve heard of the volunteer fire watchers who patrolled the roofs of St. Paul’s at night?”

  “Of course.” Like all Londoners she knew the story of the brave men and women who’d risked their lives to spot German incendiary bombs and take early action to save the cathedral from destruction—action, that is, with the whistles and buckets of sand they’d been armed with. Against all the odds they’d succeeded, though nearly every building in the surrounding area had been totally destroyed.

  “My grandfather was one of the fire watchers. He had a key. This key. I’ve carried it with me since I learned about the tunnels and catacombs beneath St. Paul’s. It’s come in handy, more than once.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why and how a key to St. Paul’s should have come in handy, but she decided to save it for another time. Undeniably it was handy now.

  Joram fitted the key into the lock. Simultaneously, an earsplitting roar shattered the hitherto silent churchyard. Powerful lights turned night into day, banishing the cloak of darkness that had enveloped them.

  Dazzled, Ayesha covered her eyes and pressed back against the wall, instinctively seeking shelter. She was still trying to clear her vision when Joram tugged her through the doorway and slammed the door shut behind them.

  “How the hell did they find us?” he muttered, clicking his penlight on.

  Something smashed against the door. It bowed inward. Ayesha threw herself backward and to the side. One more such collision and the old wood would give way.

  Joram gripped her arm. He pulled her across the room they’d entered—a vestry—toward an interior door.

  The door opened into the cathedral nave, its vast emptiness totally dark. Except for the pinprick red glows of the exit signs and the almost inconsequential light shed by Joram’s penlight. A splintering crash sounded behind them.

  “Come on!” Joram sprinted in the direction of the choir. Ayesha raced after him.

  “There they are!” Light swept across the choir. Passed over them. Then it returned; held them in its glare. A shot rang out, enormously loud, echoing and reverberating in the cavernous space. Where the bullet went, Ayesha had no idea. It hadn’t touched her or Joram, who dived down a flight of stone steps.

  Ayesha flung herself after him, her back tensing against the expected impact of another bullet. She gasped as an arm encircled her waist. Joram pulled her down onto a step, pressing her into his side.

  Shocked at the suddenness of Joram’s maneuver, Ayesha didn’t try to pull away.

  “Shh!” She felt Joram’s presence in the stygian darkness. “I’ll stay here,” he whispered into her ear, his hot breath sending shivers shooting down her spine and through her nether regions. “You go down.”

  “No.” Ayesha understood what Joram had in mind. She admired him for it. “I’ll do it.”

  She sensed Joram’s reluctance. He didn’t argue, though—which only increased her admiration. Other feelings, too. She heard him moving down the steps. Silence. She held her breath, listening. Nothing. Then booted footsteps pounded on the floor of the choir. Light illuminated the top of the staircase. Ayesha eased down two more steps, lowered herself into a sitting position, stretched both legs across the step on which she sat. Then she braced herself against each wall of the staircase and waited. She thought about how good Joram had felt when he’d pulled her close. She loved his smell, too; his cologne was something sort of orangey and spicy that lingered in her nostrils. Someone coming down the stairs. She tensed for the impact. A steel-toed boot slammed into her calf. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out. Her right leg was on fire. It wasn’t broken, though, and the pain she felt was nothing to what the man coming down the stairs must have experienced as, with a grunt of surprise, he tripped over her body and flew headfirst into the void. A sickening smack sounded from below.

  Ayesha scrambled to her feet, fighting the pain that shot through her leg, and groped her way down the steps.

  Joram’s hand grasped her wrist. “Okay?”

  “Yes. His gun?”

  “Got it. Cover your ears.”

  Ayesha obeyed. She also closed her eyes. A sharp crack. A flash of light, visible through her eyelids. Then a cry of agony, and furious cursing, from above.

  Joram clicked on his penlight. “That won’t hold them for long.”

  Ayesha stepped over the crumpled body at the foot of the staircase and into St. Faith’s, a church within, or beneath, a church, and which few Londoners, let alone tourists, knew existed. Little more than a chapel in size, the original St. Faith’s beneath St. Paul’s was the church of the booksellers who once thronged the churchyard of the old cathedral. Like Old St. Paul’s, the original St. Faith’s had been lost in the Great Fire of London. But it, too, had been rebuilt by the great architect and builder Sir Christopher Wren.

  A single lamp gleamed on the altar. Votive candles flickered in a side alcove. By their light and that of Joram’s penlight, Ayesha located the carved knob in the linenfold wall at the rear of the alcove. The knob, depressed and turned to the right, then back to the left, opened a section of the wall. She’d discovered the secret many months before, when she’d first explored the tunnels that could be accessed from the cellars of the Walsingham Institute. It was, she’d thought until now, a secret known only to herself.

  When they’d stepped through the opening, careful not to extinguish the candles, Joram found and hauled on the chain that drew it closed. Then they stood still and waited.

  Footsteps echoed on the stone floor of St. Faith’s, the sound muffled by the linenfold wall that separated them from the chapel. They heard the indistinct murmur of voices. One stood out clearly.

  “Where the fuck did they go?”

  Longo.

  Ayesha felt, rather than heard, Joram stifle a
laugh. Then he shone his light down the ancient flight of stone steps at the top of which they stood. At the bottom was a structure that, like the secret opening in the linenfold wall, she’d assumed only she knew about. As she looked at the tomb of Ethelred the Unready, or Unraed, a tomb thought by the world to have been lost forever in London’s Great Fire of 1666, the excitement bubbled inside her. The Maltese Falcon had led them here. Supposedly Ethelred’s tomb contained another clue. Would they find that clue? Where would it take them next?

  Chapter 16

  The phone on Dame Imogen Worsley’s desk was buzzing as she strode into her office. She sighed; she’d hoped for a few minutes of quiet. She’d also thought vaguely about her bed, and Norman. Not that there was much hope of seeing either for the foreseeable future.

  She’d been out on the ops floor, checking with her officers, all of whom were on duty responding to the crisis. Like her, all of them felt that MI5 had failed. Let themselves down. The prime minister. The country. She’d told them the best thing they could do was to put all of their efforts into finding the culprit, bringing him, or her, to justice. One officer had been tasked with tracking down Ayesha Ryder. Given the information Imogen had received, she’d been left with no choice but to give the order. She had her own ideas on that score, however; she’d set another officer the exclusive task of digging into the background of Bebe Daniels.

  She picked up her phone. “Worsley.”

  “Dame Imogen.” There was no mistaking Noel Malcolm’s Yorkshire accent.