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.
He knew also that, from their usual stations, the ops could not see Traitor's Gate.
He frowned as the fog cleared slightly.
They could scan the river.
On the right bank the cruiser H.M.S. Belfast materialized, a floating museum permanently moored to Symon's Warf. To his left appeared the Tower Pier, with its tour boats. Beyond the pier he could begin to see the floodlit central White Tower surrounded by the darker lesser towers of the Tower of London complex.
And he could see, near what must be the Traitor's Gate, two moving lights. Flashlights! They were moving away from the gate. The guards must have completed their half-hourly inspection. Richard congratulated himself on his timing.
He could see the guards. Could they see him?
Probably not. He could see only their lights, and he was carrying no lights.
The fog thickened again. He knew the boat could carry him no further without attracting attention. The time had come for a little swim.
He took off his overcoat. Instantly his teeth began to chatter.
He put on the weighted belt, then the flippers, then the mask, which covered his eyes and nose but not his mouth. He knotted the sack containing his tranquilizer gun to his swimming trunks. As he worked, he breathed deeply, again and again, building up the oxygen content of his blood until he was slightly dizzy.
Then, steeling himself, he crept to the rear of the boat and slowly, carefully lowered himself overboard. The Thames was cold with a bite that was actually painful, but he forced himself to bear it.
The floodlighted White Tower was becoming visible again, closer than before. He took his bearings on it, sucked one last gulp of air into his lungs, then dove, bending at the waist, ducking his head downward, and raising his feet in the air.
In the darkness under the surface there was no way to tell direction. He moved like a programmed robot, following a prearranged course, trusting to memory to supply what the senses could not. He had, he knew, slightly more than one minute before he would have to surface. He swallowed, equalizing the pressure.