London Underground, page 15
Carmen stared at her drink and began to feel slightly nauseous. But Brady, unnoticing, plowed ahead.
“In the 1840s, there were ninety-eight miles of covered sewers in Holborn and Finsbury with no access to the Thames. The foul effluvia that accumulated raised such a fermentative stench that the sewer running beneath Fleet Street had to finally be reconstructed in 1849. The best addresses in London, Westminster, Belgravia, Grosvenor, Hanover and Berkley Squares all smelled like the rankest offal, due to stopped up house drains. Buckingham Palace was one of the worst offenders, with sewers in some cases hundreds of years old and crumbling.”
“I’ve seen the remains of some of those old sewers in the excavations beneath Coram’s Fields,” said Carmen. “Mostly constructed of brick and literally crumbling to dust.”
“Precisely. Things got to such a terrible state that London’s very first Metropolitan Board of Works was established in 1845. A new scheme was set up to divert those sewers that emptied directly into the Thames or its tributaries so they ran parallel to the river until they were far downstream of the central city. The old sewers had to be traced and charted because no one knew where they ran, which gives you an idea of how often they were cleaned.
“The new tunnel system was well under way by the 1860s. They were built beneath the city streets by what was called the ‘cut and cover’ method, digging down thirty feet and then covering over the sewers. All done by horse- and steam-driven cranes of course. A remarkable achievement.”
Carmen had no argument with him there, but she was beginning to wonder what all this history had to do with their impending trip on the Fleet. Was Brady just here to prepare her for the impending obnoxious odors?
Sherwood saw the look on her face. “Uh . . . well . . . this is all fascinating, Brady, but we were sort of wondering if you could tell us anything at all about whether there have been any . . . unusual . . . discoveries along the old route of the Fleet River.”
His friend looked blank. “What sort of discoveries?”
Carmen said, “While I was floating down there, I came to a place where there seemed to be something shiny lining the sides of the river. Would you have any idea what that could have been?”
He looked from Carmen to Sherwood and back. Then he shrugged. “In some places, bricks were replaced with tile. I suppose some of these, if they were glazed, might have reflected your light. A very small section of tunnels was actually illuminated by gas lamps, usually for purposes of inspection. There was one such section in the sewer at Old Ford in Hackney. But that was a 150 years ago.
“A pair of pumping stations were built, magnificent edifices they were, complete with minarets,” he said, warming up again. “The Prince of Wales actually visited the opening of Crossness Pumping Station. The band of the Royal Marines played as his royal highness and his entourage of archbishops, princes, dukes and earls examined the boiler house and were taken into the culvert that connected to the sewers. It was constructed of superb brickwork and lined with rows of colored lights. One can just picture that august assemblage strolling where there would soon be sewage up to their eyeballs. You can still visit these stations, you know. It’s actually one of my most popular tours.”
“What about bones?” asked Sherwood. “Have you ever come across anything about bones or ancient remains down there?”
Brady gave him another long look. “Bones? Bones are everywhere in old London. Cemeteries, prison gallows, hospital plots, pauper burial grounds. The Pauper’s Cemetery at St. Bride’s Church had been in use since Charles II’s day. Bones were piled up in heaps. Once a week, the remains of paupers were thrown into a hole fourteen feet deep. A clergyman said a few words and the grave received a slim covering of loose soil. The next week, the ground was opened up and a new lot interred. The whole neighborhood reeked with the smell of death.”
Brady finished his pint, wiped his mouth and said. “You’re beginning to sound dreadfully Scotland Yardish, Sherwood. What’s going on?” He made a show of looking over his shoulder. “Let me tell you something.”
Carmen and Sherwood both leaned forward.
“There was a rumor ’mongst us tour guides that there was a hidden burial site beneath central London. Hundreds of bodies. Story was an old-timer saw them after a cave-in. Some said it was bodies buried during the Blitz that no one bothered to recover. Others . . .” He paused and raised a hand to signal the waitress for another pint.
“What?” they both said in unison.
“Others said they might have been backwashed up the river on the tide. You know, from one of the notorious prisons of the fifteenth century, though that wouldn’t explain how they came to be closed in. But it was all just rumors. You’d be surprised how some of my colleagues can run on after a few pints.”
Sherwood sighed. What Brady was talking about could have been the bone field that he and Harry had found. But there was nothing new here. They still had no idea where those bones had been taken or how old they might have been.
Their next step would have to be a watery one, as dank and depressing as one of Braidwood’s tours.
They parted company with Humphries and strolled down Wardour Street all the way to Shaftsbury Avenue. It was early evening and had stopped raining long enough for the tourists to emerge from their hotels.
They turned toward Piccadilly Circus, which was bright with lights. Near the tube entrance, they stopped beside a railing and watched the teenagers who inevitably sat round the statue of Eros in their baggy blue jeans, eyes and ears sporting earrings by the cartload.
“I love this place,” Carmen said. “To me, it represents the very heart and soul of the British empire. The romantic center. The place to which boys serving in foreign lands like Natal and Jalalabad and Sierra Leone dreamt of returning one day, of meeting their girls and taking them out on the town.” She pulled up the collar of her jacket and pushed her hands deep into its pockets. “God, I love history,” she said.
Sherwood felt the tug at his heartstrings that he’d been experiencing ever since he had kissed her. He thought she was a pretty romantic character too, just like all those soldiers serving in foreign lands. Only she served in the middle of the richest bit of history in the world, the British Museum.
“I’d say you’ve found your true calling,” he said. “I envy that certainty and passion you bring to your work every day.”
She leaned back against him and looked up at the lights. “You can’t fool me, Sherwood Peets. You feel the same way about what you do.”
“Maybe you’re right. It just seems difficult to remember sometimes on a hard day when people are killed or hurt. I want to help them and that’s the best part, the most fulfilling. But often I can’t help. I can’t make it better or make it go away. That’s when I envy the solitude of what you do.”
She laughed. “And here I am wanting to go out into the world and have real adventures and take risks.”
“Lately, I’d say you’ve found enough adventure and risk right beneath your feet.”
She turned toward him. “Maybe we complement each other. What do you think?”
He thought if he didn’t kiss her at that moment, his heart might break. So he did.
28
Norway — 1944
Albert Hagelin sat in the minister president’s office and matched Quisling’s sour expression with one of his own. He had just told his old friend about the disastrous British commando attack on the camp at Finnsnes.
“Wiped out?” said Vidkun. “It can’t be true. Our best chance to win the führer’s confidence, gone. Hitler will have less interest in Norway now than ever. We will never win back his support for our country.”
Quisling could not have cared less about Hitler’s interest in his country. It was his own career that he feared could now be in jeopardy.
Hagelin looked thoughtful. “Perhaps all is not lost, Vidkun. Yes, the camp was virtually destroyed and it appears the commandos escaped. It was a brazen attack. But I have learned from several of our men in the area that there was a shipment out of the camp two days before the attack. They were not certain what the movement entailed but did say that one of the experimental V-2 rockets was part of it.”
“Good!” Quisling slammed the desk with his fist. “If they got one of the test rockets out intact, the program may yet go forward. Hitler will simply build another camp to continue the work. Do your contacts know where the rocket is being taken?”
“No. However, it was moved by rail, which means it has to be headed south. There is only one main line from the far north.” He considered. “They must intend to return it to Germany to continue testing or perhaps even for launch.”
“We must find it, Albert,” said Quisling. “The commandos could still be after it.” He felt hope rising again. “We may yet be able to win the führer’s favor if we stop the British from doing further damage. I want all of our planes up and searching for that train.”
“Such a thing would be certain to get back to Terbovin.”
“To hell with the man. This is too important. If he asks, say that we continue to search for the escaped prisoners. We must find that train and protect it.” He looked out the window and grew quiet. “You know, my old friend, if the commandos are not still after the rocket, we may have to arrange for an attack on the train ourselves.”
Hagelin raised one eyebrow. “I don’t quite follow you, Vidkun.”
“What better way to assure the führer’s gratitude? We stage an attack on the train, then swoop down with our men and save it.” His eyes took on a far off gaze. “We may yet be called to Berlin to receive the Iron Cross, Albert. Our future will be assured within the Thousand Year Reich.”
29
Gunnar eased back the stick, and they rose gracefully into the Arctic twilight. The plane responded to the slightest adjustment of the controls. Being unfamiliar with the aircraft, he made only the smallest of corrections.
It was past eleven in the evening. As he banked and set a southern course, the sky lit up around them with a jaw-dropping display of northern lights.
“My God,” Natasha said. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes. But also disorienting. More than one experienced pilot has been fooled by those flickering lights into flying straight into the sea.”
“But you’re much more experienced than that, right?” she asked hopefully.
He laughed but didn’t answer. Into his headphone he said, “Major, you ready on those guns if we need them?”
“I understand how they work,” came the reply. “But I won’t be able to count on my accuracy until I get to fire them a few times.”
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“How about banking out over the ocean so I can try them out?”
“Nope. We can’t waste the time or the fuel. We’ve got one load of gas and a belly tank that can’t be refueled. Even if by some miracle we find a fuel supply somewhere, we’re only going to be able to fill the wing tanks. That won’t get us far.”
It was a simple matter to locate the rail line. It wound through the mountainous terrain, staying close to the valleys and passes. It followed a circuitous route; one Gunnar hoped would mean a train would have to move slowly. There was only one line this far north, but he knew once they reached the more populous areas of southern Norway, he would have to select from several possible routes. Then it would become a guessing game, though in the end, most lines would lead to Oslo.
“What’s that?” Natasha asked suddenly.
He looked back to see her pointing below. He saw it at once. A train moving in the same direction they were going.
“Let’s check it out,” he said and pushed the throttle forward.
He lined up with the back of the train and they came in above it at no more than a hundred feet in altitude. A man stepped out the back of the caboose and stared up at them, then waved at the familiar looking Stuka.
“Might as well be friendly,” Gunnar said. He waggled the plane’s wings as they passed over the train.
“No red crosses,” said Natasha. “Not our train.”
“It’s too soon. They’ve got to be hundreds of miles ahead of us. But we’ll catch up. Then we’ll see.”
“Have you given any thought to how we’re going to destroy the rocket? We don’t have any bombs on board, you know.”
“Don’t remind me. We’re sure not going to be able to do much damage with the major’s guns, even if he does figure out how to hit the broad side of a barn. If we actually spot the thing, we may have to fly on ahead, land somewhere and figure out how to sabotage the rail line.”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“And it won’t get any easier the farther south we go. Up here, there are practically no towns or houses. If we get too far south before we find them, it will be much harder to avoid people and villages.” He turned around and gave her a dazzling smile. “You said you were looking forward to some excitement, right?”
She nodded. “You know what Winston likes to say.”
“What?”
“I like a man who grins when he fights.”
300 miles south of the remaining commandos in their Stuka, a military train of seven cars, including one flatbed, chugged along at barely twenty miles an hour. Maintenance of the rail lines had suffered during the war. There was no extra iron for rails or skilled laborers to effect repairs. Everything had been diverted to Germany. So the train rocked along, tilting back and forth from side to side as the rails beneath groaned and squealed from the weight.
The middle car of the seven held a mysterious cargo, long and narrow, covered with heavy tarpaulin and tied down on all sides against the elements and prying eyes. On either side of the load—hidden under camouflage netting—was a pair of machine gun nests, each manned by three men who kept a wary eye on the sky. The boxcars fore and aft of the mysterious load had large, red crosses painted on their roofs.
Hours ahead of the Stuka, another plane, flown by a Norwegian pilot under the orders of Vidkun Quisling, spotted the flatbed and prepared to fly lower for a closer look. Moments later, the pilot was back at altitude and radioing his command that he had made contact with the target. Coordinates were quickly given and then just as quickly relayed to forces of the minister president on the ground. Within the hour, a bridge along the intended route of the train was declared dangerous and closed. Two men, dressed as railway workers flagged down the train and waved the engineer onto a side spur.
As the train rocked slowly to a halt, the two engineers jumped down to go see what was happening. Suddenly, armed men burst out of the woods. They were dressed in unfamiliar uniforms that—as they drew closer—the engineers realized were those of the British army. The two stunned engineers gaped as gunfire erupted. The men in the machine gun nests on the flatbed car were dispatched before they realized what was happening. The engineers dove to the ground, hands over their heads, waiting to be killed as well.
But before that could happen, more men, dressed in the regular army uniforms of the Norwegian military, appeared out of the tundra and quickly surrounded the commandos who laid down their arms, almost as if on a prearranged signal. Not a shot was fired. The engineers were then hustled forward to have what had just happened explained to them in detail.
The magnificent forces of the Norwegian army, under the command of Vidkun Quisling himself, had thwarted a British attempt to destroy the führer’s most secret new weapon. It was likely that the very war itself had just been saved for the Fatherland. At that moment, radio messages were being sent to Berlin to inform them of the brilliant work of the army and to assure the leaders that their special weapon had been saved and would soon be on its way to Germany once again. The radio messages made sure to mention the importance of Minister President Quisling’s role in the operation.
Once the military maneuvers were safely over, Quisling appeared. Driving up in his personal car, he strutted about shouting orders for a few minutes, then went to the flatbed car and stared up at it approvingly. He would accompany the train the rest of the way to the port of Oslo, situated at the top of the hundred-kilometer-long Oslofjord, where he would personally turn over the V-2 rocket to the captain of the ship sent by Hitler to receive it. There would be no mistaking who was behind this brilliant military success.
The entire operation had taken less than two hours, including disposing of the bodies of the poor machine gunners who’d had to be killed for the benefit of the charade. All in all, a very precisely run timetable.
One that had the unintended outcome of delaying the special train long enough for Gunnar and his companions to quickly close the gap on their own intended target.
30
London — Present Day
Wolfgang pounded two pitons into the stone that lined the top of the cistern, strung a line through them and tossed it over the edge. There was a long moment before they heard it hit bottom.
“Fifty feet if it’s an inch,” said Kurt, staring nervously into the pit. “Who’s going first?”
Wolfgang didn’t say anything, so after a moment, Hans stepped up to the lip of the opening and strung the line through his harness as he’d been instructed. He backed over the edge and hung there for a moment, adjusting himself. His torch was in his backpack. He would rely on the headlamp again.
“Here goes,” he said, and began to lower himself in small increments. He descended some twenty feet, then paused and tried to see below with his light. “Still can’t see the bottom,” he yelled up to the others.
“Take it slow,” said Wolfgang.
Another twenty feet and Hans thought he saw something sticking out of the side of the cistern directly beneath him.
“There’s something down here,” he called out.
