Jennifer looked miserably out of the window. She’d been aware for several minutes that they were approaching Big Ben. Now, as the airship seemed to be readying to land in Parliament Square, the radio burst into life with a string of panic-ridden gibberish, and they drifted up again with a more insistent throbbing of engines. Jennifer had a momentary view of what may have been a sea of banners filling the Square, and the airship came to rest above the roof a couple of hundred yards from Westminster Abbey. This had no landing tower for airships, but did have a flat expanse marked out for helicopters. She stared out with a dull feeling in her stomach as the engine was switched off, and men below hurried about with the holding ropes.
“What have you been doing for the past six weeks?” Frank Wapping shouted up from the rooftop. “I’m told you watched them get half way to Vienna.”
“Wapping, Wapping, charming as ever!” Radleigh sneered. He climbed hesitantly down the rope ladder, and stretched out an arm for Jennifer. “Come on, my dear. No one wants you to trip and break your neck. We’ll soon have those cuffs off you.”
“Abigail isn’t pleased,” Wapping pressed on. “We’ve got trouble—big trouble all over.” He looked at Jennifer and twisted his face into a faintly welcoming smile.
Radleigh straightened his tie and went over to where he could see the protest that covered Parliament Square. He looked back and smiled. “My dear Francis,” he said, “I just wanted to know if our young lovebirds would be joined again by that Cardinal who’s been causing so much trouble. He would have been a bag worth waiting for, don’t you think? In any event, where’s the fun in a chase where the prey don’t think till the end they’ve got clean away?”
“The Pope’s man is already here,” Wapping nearly shouted. “If we don’t get help soon, we’ll lose control everywhere.” Though in the wrong position to see anything, he nodded towards Parliament Square.
“Oh dear!” Radleigh beamed at him. “Have all our helicopter gun ships been called away on other business?” he pursed his lips at the scowl his words got. “Well, it’s Basil to the rescue, if I’m not mistaken. But I’d have hoped Abigail would be here with a welcoming kiss.” Wapping swallowed nervously as a shift in the breeze carried up a faint sound of singing from the Square. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped some of the dandruff from his collar. He looked at the stained and greasy cotton. He wiped sweat from his face. With savage impatience, he stuffed the handkerchief back into his breast pocket.
There was another shift in the breeze, and they all watched in renewed silence while Michael came down the ladder. “Try anything at all,” Jennifer heard Tarquin say in Greek, “and your slut’s chest will be smashed in as if by a giant hammer. She might live long enough to die choking in your arms.” He looked up with a cruel smile. Michael ignored his offer of help and jumped down beside Jennifer.
He lifted his wrists and took her hands in his. “We’ll get out of this,” he breathed in Greek. “Trust me.” Jennifer nodded. She saw no point in arguing the obvious. She leaned forward to kiss him.
Before their lips could meet, Wapping pushed between them. “No contact—it’s Abigail’s orders. No contact of whatever kind.” He stood back for two armed guards dressed in black to come forward to take hold of Michael. He looked at the Greek boy. “He is an Outsider?” he asked, uncertain. “I thought they all had pockmarks and rotten teeth.” He mopped his brow again, plainly worried that he might be handing over the wrong person to Hooper. He turned to Jennifer, his jacket flapping open to show a lining held together with safety pins. “What a waste!” He said. “What a stupid waste!” He put up a hand to stroke her face.
“You leave my Little Bear alone!” Robert snarled in his own language. He’d been struggling with the rope ladder, and was at just the proper height for getting one of his booted feet into Wapping’s chest. Wapping let out a burp and flew backwards. He landed heavily, and, with a ripping of trouser cloth, continued for another foot. Robert managed to jump down the last few rungs. He laughed and went for his sword.
“Stop this at once!” Radleigh shouted. One of the guards had already let go of Michael and was cocking his rifle. Radleigh shook his head. He pointed at Tarquin. “Tell him to hand his sword over. He can have it back when Hooper’s done with us all.”
The guards helped Wapping back to his feet. While they discussed how to get everyone off the roof, and to where, Robert tried, even without his sword, to look fierce. “My dear young children,” he said in Latin, “this was none of my doing—or, if it was, I am bound by oath to My Lord of Normandy.” He spread his arms wide. “O, Little Bear,” he cried dolefully, “how and why did you get yourself mixed up in this terrible business? I should never have let you back into England.” He stopped and looked about for what else to say, but didn’t find anything. He clutched his head again and muttered something about English boiled wine.
Radleigh close behind her, Jennifer stepped through the door from the ministry basement into Westminster Underground Station. It was clear of decayed bodies, and was clean and brightly lit. All the moving stairs were in operation. Except there were only six people to see it all, plus the two guards, it might have been the Olden Days come again. She wondered if Michael, who had no background memory of the Underground, was thinking of the horrors they’d been through in Oxford Circus. She didn’t suppose there was any railway service, but still found herself looking at one of the big Underground maps.
All injured dignity and torn out crotch, Wapping said nothing. He waited for everyone to catch up with him in the booking hall, then made for the moving stairs that led down into the cavernous depths of the Jubilee Line. Here, Count Robert stopped. He looked at the continuous forming of grooved metal into steps. “I’m not going on that thing,” he said firmly. “It doesn’t look right to me.” He watched Michael get onto it, flanked by the two guards. He moved aside for Tarquin to push by him. Still, he refused to take the necessary step forward.
Radleigh sighed and took out his cigarette case. He looked at its contents and put it away. “You know, my dear,” he said to Jennifer, “in the time I’ve known him, this oaf has been exposed to motor cars, electric light, any number of guns, and an airship. He’s left it rather late for a white man’s magic moment. If I’m not mistaken, there’s far worse to come. Now, do get him on to this staircase. Young Francis is already down there and waiting. We really wouldn’t want him to have a stroke.”
“Please take my arm, Robert,” she said. “I’m worried I’ll fall in these cuffs.” He swallowed and nodded. He put an arm about her shoulder and made himself step forward.
By the time they arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Wapping had crossed over to a metal door that had no handle and was flush with the wall. It might have been the entrance to a broom cupboard or some forgotten office of the London Underground. Jennifer could imagine how none of the commuters—and probably none of the guards and ticket inspectors—had given it so much as a first look, let alone a second.
“Ah, the Prime Minister’s own entrance to the Underground!” Radleigh said with an enthusiasm that seemed to be his alone. “Would it not have been easier to cross the road and then walk to Downing Street? Or is Whitehall also crowded with feral hymn-singers?”