Slapping at a button he hoped it would open the door whilst the bus was in motion. Luckily it did and the merc fell away into the night. Caitlyn clutched a pole to her chest as if she might never let go.
Alicia tumbled as the bus crashed down onto all four tires, but so did the merc she fought. Crashing to the floor he kept hold of his gun, now several seats in front of her and closer to Caitlyn.
“Don’t be an amateur!” she cried at the young woman. “Help us!”
“I didn’t do it on purpose!”
“Oh, that really helps.”
Caitlyn now struggled to her feet, still waving the gun.
Alicia leapt up onto the back of the first seat and jumped from row to row, heading toward the back of the bus, her footing firm and sure. The merc scrambled. Behind her, Russo slammed his opponent against the side window, shattering the glass in the overlarge pane. Despite a groan of agony the man still fought against Russo. Crouch roared past a dawdling Micra, much to the surprise and disgust of its occupants, and turned hard left onto Pall Mall. Alicia missed her step and crashed to the floor.
“Oh, come on!”
The merc gasped too, striking his head against a pole. Russo finished his opponent off with an elbow. Healey took advantage when Crouch’s driving caused his enemy to lose a pretty good chokehold and ended the fight, coughing hard.
Alicia rose and jumped over the final row of seats, at last face to face with her adversary. His gun lay on the floor at his own feet.
Alicia grinned. “Suddenly feeling inadequate are we?”
The merc struck. At that moment Crouch slammed on the brakes and swerved to the curb, veering across yet another car. Both the merc and Alicia fell in a heap, tangled together. The man was big and wore a heavy jacket that puffed him up even more. It also served to hamper his movements. Alicia struck hard at his ribs and liver, but the jacket protected him from every blow. Underneath, she twisted and jack-knifed her body, throwing him aside.
He came up with the gun aimed at her face.
Russo stepped in, slamming a boot at his neck and breaking bones. Alicia sighed and looked up at the big man.
“I had him.”
Russo nodded and held out a hand. “I know. But you don’t need to worry about it. Because you have friends.”
Crouch’s voice filled the bus. “We should get out of here now. Before the police decide to lock us up.”
Alicia took Russo’s hand and allowed herself to be lifted to her feet. “Cheers, Rob.”
“Any time.”
THIRTY TWO
By late the next morning the team had everything they needed. A night in an obscure, side-street hotel away from central London and close to King’s Cross did nothing to heighten their enthusiasm, and Alicia came as close as she’d ever been to refusing to take a morning shower. In the end, with the lights off and the door closed to preserve dimness she managed it. When she set eyes upon Crouch the next morning she frowned.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“More important things to do,” he said as they filed out of the cramped lobby and into a brisk, bright morning. “I decided we need a device.”
Alicia raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Dare I even ask?”
“Not your kind of device. My mind. The first task of the day is to decide which of the two arches we’re going to concentrate our efforts on.”
Crouch took a left up Euston Road opposite the great sprawling mass that was King’s Cross Station and started walking. “We need a vibrometer.”
Alicia thought about everything he had said. “What do you mean ‘my kind of device’?”
Crouch waved it off. “A vibrometer is a laser radar vibration sensor that can be used to detect the presence of tunnels. Developed originally for the military some years ago it helped detect buried landmines and improvised explosives — IEDs. The sensor measures surface vibrations, analyses them, and then equates them to a library of target data to render a map of what is below ground. It can find anything from voids to hidden machinery.”
“And you can pick one up in… where? Currys?” Russo asked.
“No. But there is an electronics shop down Tottenham Court Road that has international customers and handles some rather sensitive goods. Nothing strictly illegal, of course, just merchandise the stuffy politicians would rather you didn’t have.”
Alicia followed the boss past St Pancras and Euston Stations, turning left onto Tottenham Court Road. Healey voiced a concern over being famished and Crouch took a glance at his watch.
“Actually,” he said, “we do have time for breakfast.”
They chose croissants, poppy seed pastries and strong black coffee at Kamps before continuing on their way. Crouch entered the large electronics shop alone, leaving Alicia and the rest of the team to their own devices. Alicia watched the flow of human traffic, fascinated by the gym-goers, the dog-walkers, the workmen in their hi-vis jackets and the odd partygoer undertaking the walk of shame. When Crouch returned he held a plastic bag, straining at the handles. Without a word he indicated the closest underground station — Goodge Street.
Twenty minutes later they were exiting Marble Arch station and heading over to the arch once more. Crouch stopped before the high gates looking a little wary. “This thing isn’t exactly small, but it is the latest tech capable of detecting voids hundreds of feet below the earth.”
He pulled the device out of the bag. Alicia saw his problem. The machine was as wide as a dinner plate with two holes and cylindrical lugs and a narrow disc-ended snout. Crouch laid the snout gently against the ground and flipped a switch, looking intensely uncomfortable now as a swelling current of sound waves filled the air. Passersby looked over. Alicia found herself wishing she’d relieved one of the earlier workmen of his hi-vis jacket. At least then they might have looked the part.
“How long does this take?”
“Don’t worry,” Crouch’s tone belied his words. “Eight to ten seconds.”
“And the readout?”
Crouch straightened, holding the machine up. “Right here.”
The screen displayed a series of multicolored sound waves. To Alicia they meant nothing. Even to Crouch they meant very little.
“Well, according to my crash course, this says that there are no tunnels running directly under Marble Arch. So the Central Line underground system that has a station back there,” he waved down Oxford Street, “at Bond Street and then here at Marble Arch must kink away toward its next stop at Lancaster Gate. Boys and girls, there’s nothing under here.”
Deflated, they moved quickly away, retracing their steps of yesterday down Park Lane. “Let’s take a taxi,” Crouch said, holding his arm out. “In case London’s CCTV surveillance system spotted what we were doing.” He shrugged. “It’s better than being stopped on the hoof.”
Ten minutes later they entered the central island of Hyde Park Corner and walked toward the great Wellington Arch. Crouch waited as long as he could and finally, warily deployed the vibrometer. Then the group retired to one of the benches that dotted the area.
“What does it say?” Alicia craned over.
Crouch frowned at the readings. “Would you believe it? A tunnel does not run underneath here.” He stared at the arch. “Three do.”
Caitlyn bounced in her exuberance. “Three?”
“According to this they do. And if I’m reading it right, which admittedly,” he shrugged, “is debatable.” He pointed at the screen. “That one is the underground. It’s huge. So the Victoria Line runs almost underneath where we’re sitting now with the road at our backs. But the other two?”