Newton’s Fire

III

Curiosity and dignity had fought like rival angels over Croke when invited to climb down the rope to see first hand what lay in the underground chamber. Dignity had won.

He watched the feed on a laptop screen. The passage. The antechamber. The vault itself. No sign of it anywhere. He hadn’t expected it, not after having seen the empty plinth. Yet it was another major setback. And time was running out fast.

His mobile rang. Avram Kohen’s nephew Jakob. The one who’d sent them here. ‘What do you want?’ he asked him tightly.

‘I know where it is,’ said Jakob. ‘I know exactly where it is.’

‘That’s what you said last time.’

‘No. I only said it made sense. This time I’m sure.’

‘Go on, then. Where?’

‘I want your word on something first. Luke Hayward and Rachel Parkes are my friends. They’re not to come any harm.’

Croke scowled. So that was where they’d gone from Victoria. To see Kohen. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You have my word. They won’t come to any harm at our hands. Now where is it?’ He listened as Kohen talked. ‘You’re quite sure about this?’ he asked, when he was done. ‘You’ve already steered us wrong twice.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Kohen. And he launched into a confusing explanation of the vault beneath Croke’s feet, of ciphers, of iron anchors and state funerals.

‘Okay,’ said Croke, cutting him off. ‘We’ll take a look. If we find it, you’ll be coming with us, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your uncle said something about supplies. Anything you need will have to be at City Airport by mid-afternoon.’ He gave him contact details for his pilot Craig Bray then ended the call and stood there thinking through next steps. He tried Walters first. ‘I told you they’d break cover,’ he told him when Walters answered.

‘Where?’

‘St Paul’s Cathedral. But listen: I gave Kohen my word that they wouldn’t come to any harm. Not at our hands. And we need him on our side, for the moment at least. So if anything should happen to them, it can’t look like it was us.’

‘Got you, boss. Leave it to me.’

Croke went over to the well shaft, shouted down for Morgenstern. The NCT man clambered athletically back up top again. ‘I just got a call,’ Croke told him, leading him to a secluded corner. ‘It seems it’s in London after all.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ scowled Morgenstern. ‘How many more dead ends are we going to hit?’

‘This wasn’t a dead end,’ said Croke. ‘They built this place to hold it; they simply found somewhere better. And now we know where that is.’

‘Where?’

‘St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘No way. No. Fucking. Way. It’s miles beyond my authority.’

‘Your authority comes from your Commander in Chief,’ said Croke. ‘Are you planning to let her down?’

Morgenstern bit his teeth together, brought his anger back under control. ‘It’s not like that,’ he said. ‘I’d do it if I could. But I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t have that kind of pull. Crane Court was different. I could do it on my own initiative, explain myself afterwards. But not St Paul’s. We’d need explicit ministerial approval. And they’d want some kind of in-person briefing. With evidence too. Hard evidence. Not some mysterious phantom source.’

‘My informant has just assured me that the terrorists from Crane Court have planted a dirty bomb in the crypt of St Paul’s Cathedral. There’s a national memorial service tomorrow night at which the Prime Minister, his cabinet and the whole royal family are going to be honoured guests. Are you honestly telling me you’re prepared to let that service go ahead without first making absolutely sure it’s safe?’

Morgenstern nodded, seeing how he might be able to make it work. ‘An attack on the Royal Family,’ he said. ‘On the British government. On democracy itself. We couldn’t possibly risk that.’

‘No,’ said Croke. ‘We couldn’t.’