Bristol House (49 page)

She was there. She hurled herself up the stairs and flung herself at the heavy iron gate that barred her exit from the coal passage. It did not budge.

Locked.

Of course. That was sensible. The buildings didn’t want to invite strangers. But it must open from the inside. No reason it shouldn’t. Salt sweat was pouring into her eyes, and she couldn’t see clearly. She felt up one side of the gate and down the other and found a metal box-type closing. There had to be a latch. She couldn’t find it.

She found instead a keyhole.

The gate to the alley was locked from both sides. The residents of the buildings, the ones with legitimate reasons to be down here, had keys. She had none. Mrs. Walton had never given her a key to the storage cellar.

Annie pressed her face to the grillwork. She was looking at what she’d expected to see, a narrow service alley between two buildings, lit by the false dawn of the early English morning, and to the right the subdued nighttime glow of Southampton Row. She could make out a line of rubbish bins. Nothing else. No one. Annie opened her mouth to scream for help. Then she closed it. The guy with the quail egg—she’d decided it had to be a man—was probably out there. Waiting for her, maybe coming for her.

The smart thing to do was go back. Go all the way back as fast as she could and up to the lobby and out the front door. She’d be yards away from him then. Even if he saw her leave and came after her, she could outrun him. She swallowed her despair at the thought of retracing her steps and turned around.

Run, Annie. Run. Don’t think about—

A hand grasped her shoulder.

She screamed and thrust her body toward the deepening darkness ahead. “No! No! No!” Her feet skittered on the cobbles, and she fell against the stone wall to her left.

It gave way, crumbling as if it were sand, and she tumbled into blackness.

***

Annie came to slowly, with no idea how long she’d been out. She was lying on her back, on something she could not immediately identify, looking up at a curved wall that became a curved ceiling that . . . she was in a tunnel, and she could see because there was low-level overhead lighting, tiny bulbs set into evenly spaced narrow recesses.

She tried to sense her body. Nothing hurt particularly. She flexed her fingers and felt grit beneath her hands. That’s what she was lying on, a huge pile of sand.

She heard nothing. No one was clambering down from wherever she’d been to wherever she was. There were no footsteps racing through the tunnel. And no one, thank God, was touching her.

Slowly, gingerly, Annie got up. Both arms and both legs—everything—worked. She peered to her left and to her right. The most likely explanation had to be that she was in some kind of subway, probably out of use. Except if that was so, why were the lights still working? And how come there were no tracks and no provision for them? The space was some nine feet across and level, without the customary dropped bed for subway car tracks.

A passage then. Between one station and another. Part of the old tram tunnel possibly.

What help was that? She already knew the exit on Theobald’s Road was barred. Also, that the nearest exit out of the coal passage above her head was locked. A moot point. She couldn’t get back up there if she wanted to. The wall that was now some ten feet above her head had collapsed into a pile of sand. That’s how come she hadn’t broken her neck when she fell, but it was much too unstable to support a climb in the opposite direction. And something up there had tried to get her. The killer with the quail egg or . . . something. Better to take her chances on the Kingsway Tunnel. So what if the gates were locked? She could climb over them, or shout until someone heard her.

Annie paused long enough to work out her bearings, then turned to her right and started walking. In a few moments she realized it was easier than she wanted it to be. She wasn’t climbing up toward Theobald’s Road—she was traveling along a gradual descent, deeper into the hidden world below London. She pressed her hand over her heart and felt the paper-wrapped Agnus Dei, still in place. Lamb of God,
miserere mei.

39

She was thirsty, but she’d lost the bottle of soda somewhere along the way. Probably when she fell into wherever she was. And because she wasn’t wearing a watch, she had no idea how long she’d been walking. It seemed to make little difference. Nothing changed. The tunnel was the same height and width, the lights spaced at the same distance, the descent steady. She should have been able to estimate how deep she was, but she couldn’t make herself concentrate on that kind of calculation. She was too busy fighting back terror. How long could she be lost down here? How long before Geoff—dealing with no less than the fact that his mother had just died—realized Annie was missing? How long before anyone was able to figure out she’d gone down to the subbasement, then trace her route to where the wall caved in and puzzle out where she was?

Too long. She could die down here before—

She told herself not to be melodramatic. There had to be maintenance crews of some sort, and this tunnel was a connector to somewhere else. That, after all, was the only reason anyone built a tunnel. When you get to wherever it’s taking you, she reminded herself, there’ll be an opportunity to reassess the situation.

More time passed. She walked farther and farther from where she had started, always going deeper into the bowels of . . . what? She no longer had a theory that fit the facts. There were no signs of tram tracks or anything that might link where she was to where she’d thought she might be.

Fear was a physical thing, she could feel it expanding in her belly and rising into her throat. She forced it down, burying it under an equally instinctive commitment to survival. One foot in front of the other and the other and the other, until . . . there was an opening to her left, leading to an even steeper descent, but at the end, brighter light. Annie began to jog toward what seemed a beacon of hope.

“
Benedicite, omnes.
” A blessing on all.

Annie heard the words before she saw anything. The monk? Down here?

The passage in front of her made an abrupt right-angle turn. The sound was coming from somewhere beyond that bend, while on this side of it she thought she saw a slight deepening of the shadows that might indicate the opening to another spur. Slowly, very tentatively, Annie took a single step. And then one more.

“
In nomine Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, Amen.
” Then, immediately following the chant, Annie heard a startlingly familiar voice. “We must talk.”

Jesus God Almighty. The person handing out the blessings was Philip Weinraub.

Annie inched forward. She’d been right about the opening to another spur. She was level with it. She could head in that direction, away from Weinraub’s benedictions and commentary. Or she could take one more step and edge around the corner and see what was happening.

Two steps in fact. A few feet of dim passage lay between her and a large, brightly lit room. Wooden folding chairs were scattered about, and there were tables stacked in a corner, as well as South Sea Island scenes painted into trompe l’oeil windows. Maggie said the old spy tunnels had had a restaurant with fake windows. This had to be it. Now, however, the spies were gone, and it was a gathering place for crazy people.

Weinraub was maybe ten feet in front of her. He was dressed entirely in black but with a white clerical collar. He was speaking to Jennifer Franklin and a man who had to be her husband. They both wore white. Jeans and a T-shirt for the guy Annie thought must be Rob. Jennifer had on a gauzy, long white skirt that fluttered around her legs, and a white T-shirt pulled taut over her swollen belly. Her golden hair and her bronze tan shimmered beneath the blue-white fluorescent light.

“As soon as the imposter dies,” Weinraub said, “and the Conclave begins, I shall fly to Rome. The time will at last be right, and shortly thereafter the entire Christian world will be ready for the truth.”

“But the Agnus Dei,” Jennifer protested. “We still don’t have it, Holiness. If—”

Weinraub cut her off with a raised hand. “You cannot yet call me that. Not until everything is revealed and I am pope. Now I remain only the Speckled Egg.”

“But you’re supposed to be the real authority,” Rob said. “The true Vicar of Christ on earth. You’ve been saying so right along.”

Weinraub nodded. “By the grace of God, I am.”

“Then it seems to me you should have the answer to Jen’s question. How come we don’t have the mezuzah and the Agnus Dei? They’re supposed to be in our possession when the true pope returns to Rome.”

“They are supposed to be in England,” Weinraub corrected. “I believe they are. And if the Speckled Egg before me had not died suddenly, we would know exactly where among the Jews we were to look for it. He would have left instructions for how to decode his mural. I hoped there would be enough time for the Kendall woman to uncover its secrets. As it is, the hand of God has struck sooner than we expected, and the Antichrist is dying. Our moment has come, and I must be ready to take my rightful place.”

Annie saw Jennifer shake her head. “I think we should wait until we have the mezuzah. We can’t do . . . do something so drastic, unless we’re sure.” She sounded genuinely upset. Tears were muffling her words.

Something drastic. Gas, Geoff had said. Or maybe a fire or a bomb. Jesus God Almighty . . .

The Franklins might have doubts; Weinraub clearly had none. “We can’t delay any longer. Everything is ready, and as I said, this is our time. Rob, you shall accompany me to Rome. Jennifer, you will wait in London to welcome the others. The true believers will come from all over the world as soon as I send the word. You’re to bring them here to our twenty-first-century catacombs and wait for my instructions.”

Annie had heard enough. All she had to do was get out of this goddamned tunnel and talk to someone who could not just put the pieces together but do something. Slowly, very carefully, she drew back.

Weinraub said something about a blessing before they left.

“Hang on—” Rob cocked his head in the direction of the door. “I thought I heard something.”

Annie caught her breath.

“
Benedicite, omnes, Pater et Filio—
” Weinraub began.

“Hang on, I said! I’m sure I heard something.”

Annie stopped moving. The little paper-wrapped parcel in her bra was burning hot. It felt as if someone were holding a lit torch to her flesh. She reached in and tore it away from her breast, but kept as tight a grip on it as she could. She mustn’t drop it. She mustn’t.

“
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi
”
—
the chant that filled the tunnel did not come from the direction of the old restaurant—“
miserere nobis.
” The sound reverberated off the walls and the ceiling. It was as if a hundred monks were singing, a thousand

She heard the slap of a hand against a wall. Someone had hit a switch and the passage was flooded with bright light. She froze. So did the others. But they were staring straight at her. Two heartbeats. Three. Annie spun around and ran. The chant had stopped, but she could hear pounding footsteps coming after her.

There was no point in going back the way she had come. She dived into the spur. Moments later she confronted a dead end flanked by a pair of exits to one side and a single one opposite it. With nothing to go on but instinct, Annie picked the leftmost exit and raced forward.

Behind her the pursuers reached the same need to choose. A moment of indecision, then a flurry of footsteps, resulting in just one set remaining clear enough to be heard. They had split up to follow all three options. Only one of them was now behind her.

Annie looked around, searching for some sort of advantage, desperate to overcome the fact that Weinraub and Jennifer and her husband had some familiarity with this maze. She spotted a niche up ahead, identified by a break in a shadow of the sidewall’s expanse. If she could squeeze into that crevice, hide there until whoever was following her had passed, then double back, she could . . .

Better still, there was a breaker handle in the niche. It was painted bright red. Her pursuer’s footsteps had grown louder and closer. Annie was still clutching the Agnus Dei, but with her other hand she grabbed the handle and yanked it down.

The lights went out.

The darkness was absolute. Her eyes could not adjust sufficiently to make out even shadows. As for sound, she heard nothing. Whoever was in the tunnel with her was waiting and listening as well. The Agnus Dei was no longer hot. She slipped it deep into her pocket, then held her breath, sucking in her stomach and folding her arms in front of her, making herself as small as possible so she could wedge herself deeper into the niche. Five seconds went by. Six. The footsteps started again. Slow and cautious this time. She tried to decide if it was Weinraub or Jennifer or Rob, and which one she stood a better chance against. She had no good ideas about either question. In a few more seconds, whoever it was passed by her, close enough that she could hear the soft sounds of breathing, and went on.

Annie waited until the echo faded, then let out her breath, climbed down, and pressing her body against the wall for guidance in the total darkness, went back the way she’d come.

Some ten feet along she felt a break in the wall. It was so narrow she hadn’t noticed it when she passed this way the first time. She had to turn sideways to get through. Another dead end probably. If she got caught here, she’d be trapped. But after a few steps the tiny passage widened. Only a little at first, then a little more. Then she had to blink a couple of times because she was in an area where the lights were still on, in a small square room that housed only an old-fashioned switchboard. And beside it, on the floor, a relic from that same long-past age: a telephone with a rotary dial.

Annie bent down and grabbed the phone. Please, God, let it somehow be working. Please, please, please. She pressed the receiver to her ear. There was a dial tone.