Hammer of Angels Page 10

  I say, “Ravenmaster. Cool handle.”

  Brando smiles. “It’s a real job. There’s a legend about the Tower ravens. When the Germans took over, they let the birds stay as part of their attempt to win over their new British subjects.”

  Grey says, “The Ravenmaster is an English historian and ardent bird enthusiast. Not exactly covert field material, but his knowledge of the Tower guard is invaluable.”

  I ask, “Do we have a way inside?”

  “We have a great way inside.” Our new confederate crumples his empty sandwich wrapper into a ball, then flashes a flat metal case from his shirt pocket. As if by magic, a cigarette appears in his mouth. He flicks a Zippo in and out of his pocket, which somehow lights his cigarette without seeming to come anywhere near it. Grey inhales and then releases a mouthful of smoke toward the ceiling.

  He grins at Brando and me. “When was the last time you two went scuba diving?”

  19

  NEXT MORNING, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1:14 A.M. GMT

  THAMES RIVER, LONDON, PROVINCE OF GREAT BRITAIN, GG

  On the surface, the Thames is a charming ribbon of liquid commerce, wending its way through Olde London Towne. Beneath that watery veneer, however, are two thousand years of human waste and industrial slag. It’s not even a sewer, because sewers typically aren’t clogged with car tires, wrecked boat hulls, unexploded bombs, human body parts, and cattle skeletons.

  Brando and I swim downriver toward the Tower of London. My partner pulls along a waterproof dive bag stuffed with our bare tactical necessities. The thing seems to be a magnet for clingy blobs of yuck, and he has to keep brushing them off.

  I comm, “This must be the most disgusting place in the world!”

  Brando replies, “I’ve heard the Ganges is mostly manure and the Tiber is crammed with corpses. But yeah, this is fucking gross.”

  We began this repulsive excursion by jumping off a fishing boat. The boat’s captain, a fellow abolitionist, will wait for us under Tower Bridge. If anyone gets nosy, he’ll pretend he’s having mechanical problems.

  It’s a short swim to our objective, but we stay submerged the whole way to avoid searchlights. The Tower’s external security measures don’t present much of an obstacle for us, but the guards inside might. This is why Raj and Grey are positioned on the far side of Tower Hill, ready to provide a patented ExOps-style diversion.

  We pass under the stone arch that serves as the Tower’s main gateway for watercraft. Our finned feet propel us to the citadel’s infamous point of entry for conspirators, spies, and seditionists, known as Traitors’ Gate. The gate itself is made of heavy timber slabs, painted black. Right now it’s submerged beneath high tide. Traitors’ Gate has an array of electronic sensors to prevent exactly this sort of sneaky ingress, but tonight they’re out of order thanks to our accomplice, the Ravenmaster.

  I swim ahead and start digging a hole that’ll allow us to pass under the gate without disturbing it. My excavation fills the water with even more gunk than before, and our visibility plunges to zero. I dig faster, and as soon as the hole is wide enough, I pull myself in, kick my legs, and zip under the gate. Brando swims right behind me, following by touch.

  We gently surface like a pair of alligators, our eyes barely above the water. We float in front of a steep flight of stairs that lead to the Tower’s interior. I activate my infrared and amplify my hearing.

  There’s nobody in the immediate area. Almost all the structures in the Tower are made of rocks, which effectively blocks heat signatures, so I switch to radar and night vision to make sure. Still clear. According to the Ravenmaster, most of the London garrison was sent to Yorkshire, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland to contain the massive shitstorm us ExOps Levels are whipping up.

  We climb a few steps and shrug ourselves out of our scuba tanks, masks, and fins. Brando unpacks our dive bag. He hands me my F-S fighting knife, Li’l Bertha, her holster, and a few Multi Caliber ammo packs. He extracts his X-bag, then pins our scuba gear under the air tanks, below the water’s surface.

  My partner hoists his spy-stuff depot. His teeth shine in the gloom as he asks, “Ready?”

  Part of our prep for this job included smearing each other’s faces with camouflage makeup. Now, moisture from his hair beads up as it flows across his obscured features. I feel the same thing happening on my forehead, nose, and cheeks.

  “Ready,” I say.

  We trail a stream of brown sludge up the stairway to what my Eyes-Up display informs me is Water Lane. In front of us is the thirty-foot-high inner wall, topped with square crenellations like castles in fairy tales.

  Now for some old-school cloak-and-dagger stuff. The Ravenmaster has marked a hidden trapdoor in Water Lane that will get us past the inner wall and into the main courtyard. He said it was built ages ago as a secret emergency exit for some royal somebody or other. It sounds like the Tower is riddled with these sort of things. Our man wasn’t sure what he’d be able to use as a marker, so we’ll have to search carefully. He won’t have used a piece of white chalk to draw a big arrow or anything. It’ll be something that won’t seem out of place.

  We know it’s right near Traitors’ Gate, so we scout around near the wall. I look left while my partner moves right. Our head-to-toe black scuba suits and darkened faces transform us into a pair of shadows. After a minute Brando curses under his breath.

  “What’s the matter?” I comm.

  “I just stepped on a wad of bubble gum!” he gripes.

  “Could that be our marker?”

  He scrapes his foot on the pavement. “I’m sure it is, but now my damn boot sticks to everything.” Brando is as fastidious as Trick was. A blob of goo stuck to one of his extremities is definitely not his idea of a good time. I try to keep a straight face as I walk over and examine the walkway near what’s left of the marker.

  The ground is paved with cobblestones, but tucked between two of the stones is a small, smooth gray disk. I press it. Nothing happens. I bunch my fingers together and press hard on the disk. The round button clicks down, and a manhole-size slab of cobblestones pops up an inch.

  “Hey-y, not bad,” Brando comms. We lift the secret hatch out of its mount and peer inside. “I’d better go first so you can put the cover back.” He sits at the opening’s edge, drapes his legs in, and drops down. He lands with a gentle thud.

  “All clear,” he comms. “It’s even dry.”

  I swing my feet in, grab the lid, and shimmy into the hole. Brando holds me up by my legs so I can reseat the cover. The hatch clicks into place, and my partner lowers me to the ground.

  The tunnel is jet black. Even my night vision can’t see anything. Starlight technology works by enhancing available low light, but in here there’s nothing to amplify. I click on my watch’s light, and Brando takes a small flashlight from his X-bag. He leads us through the tunnel and, presumably, under the inner wall. After only sixty feet the tunnel ends. We shine our lights at the ceiling, revealing another trapdoor.

  I boost Brando onto my shoulders. He waves his flashlight around until he finds a small gray button. This one presses in easily since it hasn’t been exposed to God knows how many years of weather and bubble gum.

  The round cover clicks open. Brando slowly shoves it off to the side. Taking a cue from Jade and Pericles, I bend my knees, then lunge straight up and bounce my partner through the opening like a Brando-in-a-box. Then I squat down again and boing myself out of the tunnel.

  My feet land on either side of the hatchway. I reseat the lid and look around. Shelves of canned food, boxes of cereal, and bags of flour. The tunnel has led us into someone’s pantry. I exit through the adjoining kitchen and enter a living room.

  We’re in a traditionally decked-out British row house. A quick infrared scan shows me nobody’s home. This cozy parlor is appointed with overstuffed furniture, patterned drapes, and a rocking chair set in front of a small fireplace. On the mantelpiece are some heavy brass keys and a shiny brass lamp. Brando surveys the T
ower’s inner courtyard through a lace-curtained window. I expect a Hobbit to walk in and offer us tea and crumpets. What I don’t expect is…

  Alix!

  I freeze. My left cheek twitches. Was that Brando? No, he’d say “Scarlet.”

  Alix, sweetheart, is it really you?

  Spiders of ice burrow out of my scalp and skitter down my neck. No, this cannot happen. Not in the middle of a mission! Of all the times I could pick to lose my mind, it can’t be now.

  Please, Hot-Shot. I need your help.

  Brando walks to the door and puts his hand on the knob. When he checks to make sure I’m ready, his eyes open wide. “Scarlet, what’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”

  There’s no time for beating around the bush. “Darwin, you know my father was kidnapped by the Germans and that he eventually turned up in their Carbon Program.”

  My partner slowly says, “Yeah-h-h?”

  “When we—when Solomon and I—were in Zurich last year to investigate Carbon, I heard my father’s voice speak to me.”

  To his credit, Brando absorbs this crazy-ass shit very quickly. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “I just heard it again.”

  He takes off his glasses and gives me a look.

  “I know, I know. It sounds like one of my spells. But I swear, it came through my commphone.”

  He polishes his lenses on his shirt. “Scarlet…”

  I stamp my foot. “No, Darwin! I heard it!”

  He jams his glasses on and scowls at me. “All right. Comm me into your Day Loop.”

  I grant him access to my twenty-four-hour audio/video log and rewind it a couple of minutes. We listen to our footsteps in the tunnel, the quiet rumpus of me boosting us up here. Then:

  Alix!

  Brando jumps in surprise at the unexpected voice. A sheen of perspiration forms on his brow as he listens to the rest of the transmission. He whispers, “Ho-o-oly crap.”

  “The only time I heard it like this was in Zurich, at the Carbon lab. Maybe there’s a Carbon facility near here. We have to check it out.”

  Brando indicates our surroundings. “Scarlet, we’re in the middle of an assignment. Whatever that’s about has to wait until—”

  “It can’t fuckin’ wait! If my dad can comm to me, it might mean he’s nearby. Call your boss and find out if the Krauts have a piece of Carbon in the area.”

  “Scarlet, that transmission could have been from anyone!”

  I cross my arms and lean against a side table covered with porcelain figurines from the Bible. Brando sees my utterly implacable expression and clenches his teeth.

  “Okay, fine.” He comms his Info Coordinator, rams the request through, and grumpily waits for an answer. Then his face goes blank.

  “Jesus,” he says. “Carbon does have a facility in London. It’s right here, in the White Tower.”

  I haul Li’l Bertha out of her holster. She’s already switched herself on. Her system connects to my Eyes-Up display, but her target indicator is blank. Dammit! Where is he?

  I place my pistol—my father’s pistol—next to my head and comm, “Daddy? Can you hear me?”

  We stand as still as blocks of granite.

  Yes.

  It works! My eyes brim with tears, and my breath catches in my throat.

  Brando is so astounded you could play marbles with his eyeballs. “He can hear you?”

  “Yes!”

  My partner gapes at Li’l Bertha. “How is he doing that?”

  “He must be here in London.”

  No.

  “No? Where? Dad, where are you?”

  It’s…not a…large city.

  “Daddy, how are you doing this?”

  Carbon has its own comm-net. I…honey, I have to stop. This takes…Keep searching, baby.

  “Dad?”

  Nothing.

  “DADDY? Uh, Philip? Big Bertha? Hello?”

  Still nothing. I pull my hair and shriek, “FUCK!”

  Brando holds my arms. “Alix, what’d he say?”

  “He said Carbon has its own communication network.” I feel light-headed from breathing too fast. “He must have hacked in through his commphone somehow.”

  “But how did your father know you were…that you’d be able to…”

  “Maybe it’s something he did to his pistol.”

  Brando looks utterly bewildered, as though I’ve gone nuts so convincingly that he’s been dragged along for the ride. Talking to my sidearm wouldn’t be the craziest thing he’s ever seen me do. Levels aren’t always the most stable people, and some Levels have cracked during missions. Meanwhile, I get even dizzier and my peripheral vision begins glowing red.

  “Scarlet,” he says gently, “how about we ask Cyrus to send us back after we finish this assignment?”

  I smack his arm with my heavy watch. “Fuck that, Darwin! After this snatch job we’ll never get back in here. It’s now or never, and you know it.”

  My partner glares at me and rubs his arm. Then his hand stops moving, and his gaze moves to some indeterminate point on the ceiling. I can tell he’s forming an idea, so I refrain from whacking him again. Instead I totter to the window and examine the White Tower. It’s not exactly white, but it’s certainly a lighter color than the rest of the architectural heap that constitutes the Tower of London.

  There aren’t any windows or doors near the ground. The heavy stonework has long vertical ribs accenting its height and small windows emphasizing its weight. It’s like it was carved into a living slab of protruding bedrock.

  “Scarlet, c’mon,” Brando comms. “Let’s go snatch Victor Eisenberg.”

  I whirl at him. “What about my father?”

  “Eisenberg can help us find your dad.”

  I throw my arms around his neck and hold him while the room reels around us. Then I press Li’l Bertha against my cheek. “Dad? We’re gonna find you.”

  There’s no answer, but if it’s possible to comm a nod and a smile…

  Brando leads me out to the main courtyard. I’m still trembling as I follow, but the fresh air alleviates my vertigo and my vision returns to normal.

  The courtyard is even gloomier than it was outside the main walls. We dart across a lawn and past a stone path. We’re halfway across another small lawn when my partner signals me to stop. We crouch down to scan the area. Forcing myself to focus on the moment, I crank up my hearing and switch on my infrared.

  The cold masonry becomes a black backdrop for the little row of gently glowing orange houses across the courtyard. Ten red man-blobs patrol the walls and towers.

  I comm, “Not too many guards.”

  “Yeah. The Ravenmaster was right about them stripping the garrison.”

  “Which building are we headed for?”

  Brando holds up his index finger. “Hang on. I’m asking Grey and Raj to begin their diversion.”

  The boys must have been champing at the bit for this request. Brando has barely finished comming to me when a bright flash illuminates the sky at the Tower’s north side. A loud boom and rumble indicates that Raj has opened fire on one of the outer guard posts, as removed from our path as he can make it.

  My partner remains crouched. “We’re headed for the Waterloo Block, that building against the west wall. We need to wait until the guards in front are drawn away.”

  Raj and Grey have sucked the guards into a noisy exchange of small-arms fire that rings piercingly off the walls. I scope out the front entrance of the Waterloo Block. The two troopers posted there vacillate between staring at each other and gawking toward the firefight.

  Meanwhile, it’s even chillier. “I’m freezing! Did the temperature drop all of a sudden?”

  “It might be the ghosts,” Brando comms back. “We’re on top of the old scaffold site.”

  “I didn’t think that many people were executed in here.”

  “Oh, lots of people died here, but only a handful of them were famous.”

  An explosion outside
hurls a fireball into the sky, and the two bozos bolt for the walls. Finally!

  This ungodly racket will lure cops like a multistory neon doughnut sign, so we hot-foot it across the courtyard. Brando pulls one of the Waterloo’s front doors open. I brace Li’l Bertha in front of me and rush through the entrance. My partner waits a few seconds, then slips in behind me.

  We’re in a large, unoccupied, dimly lit hall. The floor, walls, and twelve-foot ceiling are all made of wide oak planks. The furniture consists of a bunch of small tables with metal folding chairs around them. An incongruously colorful jukebox roosts in the corner, blasting American rock songs so loudly that I can’t hear the shooting outside.

  “Where are we going?” I call over my shoulder.

  “Eisenberg is on the third floor with the other politicals.”

  “How many guards are left in here?”

  Brando pauses. He must be comming with Grey or Raj while he’s talking to me. Then he says, “The Ravenmaster wasn’t sure, so we need to watch out.”

  The rules of engagement for this Job Number include lethal force, but only for SZ troops or if we’re under extreme duress. Otherwise I need to attempt nonlethal takedowns. That’s why we’ve been a pair of Sneaky McSneakersons and why we have the boys doing all this diversionary nonsense instead of simply killing our way in here like we normally would.

  We find an ancient stairway beside the main hall. Heavy stone blocks rise from the treads and form a shallow arch over our heads as we trot up the bleak spiral. The jukebox is gradually drowned out by a radio broadcast from upstairs. We pass the shadowed second story and ascend toward the third. We enter a wide, open area.

  This chamber may have once been part of the king’s quarters, but now it’s a hodgepodge of cages bolted to the floor. Two uniformed palookas sit at a table. One thug reads a newspaper while the other jamoke leans toward a small radio and listens to a very loud German news program.