«High enough,» came the laconic reply on the earphones.
The plane was climbing much more rapidly than it had when attached to the mothership. Richard felt the vibration rise, then, with a shudder, they broke through the sonic barrier and the noise level, which had become too loud for conversation, dropped to a gentle drone and hiss, and even this hiss was dying away as, with increasing altitude, the atmosphere outside grew steadily thinner.
«May I ask a question?» Richard was trying to be friendly.
Rasmussen did not answer.
Richard persisted. «What does this plane do?»
«We take pictures,» said Rasmussen.
«But can't you take pictures from an orbiting satellite?»
«Not good pictures.»
This was the last thing either man said for the remainder of the flight. Richard contented himself with watching. The leading edges of the stub wings were beating up, glowing a dull red, but they began to fade again before any damage was done. The acceleration pressure continued for a while longer, then, as Rasmussen eased off the throttle, the pressure vanished, to be replaced by the unforgettable sensation of free fall, of weightlessness. In a moment they were drifting, without power, in the most total silence Richard had ever experienced. He could hear his own heartbeat, his own blood pulsing in his ears, his breathing and the other man's, the faint creaks of the ship adjusting itself to the vacuum of space. The temperature in the cockpit had become uncomfortably cold, and moisture was condensing on every bit of bare metal in sight, though something-probably wires imbedded in the plastic-kept the canopy from clouding.
There was a thump and Blade saw two large torpedolike objects fall away, turning slowly. He thought, Expended fuel tanks. Probably fall into the Pacific or burn up on reentry.
Reentry!
Reentry for the spy ship would come somewhere over Europe. If MI6 had not been misled, the entire flight would take slightly over an hour. In minutes he would be in England again!
He leaned as close as he could to the canopy and was rewarded by a glimpse of the coastline of Russia, almost unrecognizable beneath a swirl of white clouds.
He sat back with a sigh and closed his eyes, resting for the ordeal ahead. For a moment he was relaxed, on the verge of sleep, then he thought of Zoe. I'm coming for you, Zoe. I'm coming, love.
He thought of the Ngaa.
A terrible anger possessed him, driving away sleep, the most frightful fury he had ever known.
He thought feverishly, I'm coming for you, Ngaa!
Was it his imagination? Or did he hear a voice like a multitude of voices whispering in unison, whispering at the edge of his consciousness?
I'm waiting.
Chapter 13
As he had done before, times without number, the quaint red-clad chief Yeoman Warder marched his troop of four similarly dressed guards toward the looming fog-shrouded Bloody Tower, ancient lantern held high. A small crowd of tourists, Germans in short pants and green-feathered caps, looked on with mild boredom.
The sentry challenged the Warder. «Halt!»
«Detail halt!» the Warder commanded.
His men obeyed with mechanical precision.
«Who goes there?» said the sentry.
«Keys,» said the Warder.
«Whose keys?» said the sentry.
«Queen Elizabeth's keys,» said the Warder.
«Advance Queen Elizabeth's keys,» said the sentry. «All's well.»
«Present arms!» commanded the Warder.
His men obeyed.
The Warder doffed his ornate Tudor bonnet, calling out, «God preserve Queen Elizabeth!»
The guards responded, «Amen!»
From out of the darkening mists came the tolling of a bell. Ten o'clock. A bugler blew the Last Post. The Bloody Tower was locked. The strange eternal pageant of the Tower of London was officially over for another day.
As the squad marched off toward the Queen's House, the German-speaking tour guide began shepherding his tourists toward the exit.
When the Germans were at last gone the unobtrusive silent men of MI6 appeared from the shadows and took up their nightly vigil.
Casually they passed the word, seeming to stand a moment together now and then by pure chance.
«This is our last night here.»
«The project is closing down tomorrow.»
«It's all over.»
Richard Blade's rowboat drifted slowly on the black River Thames, under the Cannon Street Station railroad bridge. A train, its lights only dimly visible, rumbled by overhead. He had heard the bells toll ten. He knew the tourists and Yeoman Warders had left, but he did not bend to the oars, did not try to hasten the little craft's progress. All too soon he would have to draw upon every muscle in his body, every nerve, every braincell.
He drifted, and rested, turning with the tide.
The railroad bridge faded in the gray haze behind him.
Ahead lay London Bridge, now marked only by a stream of slow-moving headlights and a harsh chorus of auto horns. The fog thinned slightly, and for a moment he could see on his right the outline of Southwark Cathedral silhouetted against a dull pink sky. Only a moment, then the fog closed in again.
He shivered. The heavy overcoat he was wearing could not quite cope with the cold, though thank God there was no wind. Under the coat he wore only a pair of swimming trunks. His body was smeared from head to foot with black oil, which gave very little protection against the weather, but made him less visible.
He looked down at his equipment, a shadowy pile in the bottom of the boat. There was his tranquilizer gun, still in its pillowcase bag. It was no Walther PPK, but it took more kindly to a dunking than any orthodox pistol. Its darts were propelled by compressed air, so it would be more reliable and quieter. Yes, a quiet weapon was important in this situation, where everything depended on surprise. Lastly, it was not a killing weapon. Richard did not want to kill his own comrades.
And there were his skin-diver's flippers, weighted belt and mask; all a gift, like the rowboat, from the CIA.
This was all he had, but to him it seemed enough.
He removed one of the oars from its oar lock and silently dipped it into the water behind the boat, using it as if it were a sculling paddle. He could not afford even the small sound of a creaking oar lock. The boat responded, began moving toward the left bank. He paused between strokes, letting it glide.
London Bridge passed overhead, and the stench of exhaust fumes temporarily replaced the normal salt sea smell, the unique aroma of a river that felt the ebb and flow of the ocean tides this far from the sea.
He glanced up as he emerged beyond the bridge. A young man and a young woman were looking down at him from the rail, but they were interested, it seemed, only in each other. The fog swallowed them up as Richard sculled and paused, sculled and paused. Drops of water fell from the oar shaft, making clusters of expanding circles that slid away behind.
For the hundredth time he reviewed his plan.
Oddly enough it was not a new, fresh scheme, hatched for this occasion, but an old scheme, or a variation of an old scheme. For years Richard had amused himself by working out ways for stealing the Crown Jewels, safely lodged-or so everyone supposed-in the Wakefield Tower, directly behind the secret entrance to Project Dimension X. He had never seriously considered putting these larcenous plots into motion, but he had often wistfully reflected, England lost a good cracksman the day J tipped me for MI6.
He knew, for example, the habits of the MI6 ops who did night duty at the Tower of London, knew that they checked the actual Traitor's Gate only once every half-hour, knew that, though he had mentioned it several times, the guards had not understood how vulnerable the Tower of London was from the river side. To them the river was as good as a wall; to Richard the river was as good as a wide-open entrance.