The Devil's Interval Page 7

  “So,” Kotler said, “ready to see where this goes?”

  Chapter 6

  Kotler had been right—the tunnel did open enough for them to stand at full height, and walk without stooping. Though he could have done with a bit more headroom. There was less than three inches between the top of his head and the ceiling, and for Denzel the gap narrowed even more.

  Denzel was breathing in a steady, meditative rhythm, to keep calm. Something Kotler had seen him do before, to control his claustrophobia. Kotler decided they could both use a distraction.

  “This tunnel pre-dates the building,” Kotler said. “It must have been here for centuries, and whoever built that structure decided to preserve it. Build around it.”

  “What’s it for?” Denzel asked.

  Kotler shrugged. “There could be any number of reasons for it. Smuggling, maybe. An escape tunnel, to foil someone’s enemies. Or it might have been a tunnel leading to the home of a mistress.”

  “Seems like a long haul just to cheat on your wife,” Denzel grunted.

  Kotler chuckled. “Debauchery can be a powerful motivator.”

  “Imagine trudging through this with no light, though,” Denzel said, and there was a slight, incredibly subtle pitch to his voice that warned Kotler.

  “Good thing we have plenty,” Kotler replied calmly. “I didn’t see any power cables or leads at the entrance. Patel must have these work lights plugged in at the destination.” He looked around, noting details from the stone of the tunnel. “There are signs of soot on the ceiling, probably from an oil lantern, or possibly tallow candles. Whoever used this tunnel brought along their own light.”

  Denzel said nothing to this, and instead plodded forward, his eyes glued on the upward-curving horizon.

  They started an incline, which was steep enough that they quickly became winded. There were no steps, and so they steadied themselves by bracing a hand on one of the walls of the tunnel. Kotler stole glances at Denzel from time to time, just making sure his friend was ok. The strain of walking up the steep rise of the tunnel was distraction enough, it seemed.

  They eventually came to a wall of ancient looking bricks, blocking the path from floor to ceiling.

  “Dead end,” Denzel said, a note of concern touching his voice.

  Kotler stepped forward, running his hands along the bricks, and the line of mortar between each. There were no obvious seams.

  He turned his attention to the work lights, tracing the power cable along the ceiling and down the wall, to where the cable disappeared into a slight gap in the brick.

  Kotler looked closer at this gap and saw that it had been carved out recently, to make way for the cable. He saw the tiniest ridge—a seam that indicated this was likely the hinge-side of a door. Now he knew what to look for, and on the opposite side of the wall he found a brick encircled with tiny, hairline cracks in the mortar—invisible unless you knew to look for them. He pushed the brick, and it sank into the wall with a click. The wall then swung open, into the tunnel.

  They stepped back enough to pull it completely open, and then Denzel put a hand up, signaling Kotler to hold back.

  Denzel drew his weapon, and quietly disengaged the safety. He led with his sidearm raised then, taking a quick peek around the edge of the doorframe, then leveling and bracing his weapon and moving in a quick step, out into the space beyond, sweeping left to right in one smooth and quick motion.

  “Clear,” he whispered.

  Kotler stepped out of the passage and into the greater chamber.

  The space opened into a cavernous room, divided with antique screens and workbenches. Strewn on nearly every horizontal surface were numerous devices in various states of construction. Some looked to be from the Victorian era, while others might have been even older. There, too, Kotler spotted a few modern instruments, such as oscilloscopes and smart tablets. In fact, as he looked closer, there were artifacts and objects from just a few decades past—equipment from as early as the 20s to as late as the 70s, with a sudden jump to modern digital technology after that.

  “This chamber is just one anachronism piled on another,” Kotler whispered. “There’s tech in here from just about every decade.”

  There was light, dotting the room as hanging fixtures, illuminating various workstations. They could move freely in this space, avoiding obstacles easily, and they stepped quietly around work benches and standing equipment as Denzel scanned and panned with his weapon, alert for signs of danger.

  Across the large space, from the other side of a set of backlit screens, a shadow moved against the far wall. They made their way toward it.

  “Did … did you hear something?” a man’s voice said, frightened.

  “Shut up,” a gruffer voice replied. “If you keep stalling, I may decide it’s not worth the trouble of keeping you around. Do you have it yet?”

  “This work took years to complete the first time,” the frightened voice protested.

  “You know what you’re looking for now, Patel,” the other man said. “With the data I gave you, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Kotler turned to Denzel and mouthed the word Patel.

  Denzel nodded, and motioned for Kotler to stay put as Denzel himself slowly moved forward.

  “That data wasn’t complete,” Patel said, sounding stern for the first time. “I need …”

  “You need to remember what’s happening here, and why you’re doing this.”

  Patel was silent, and Kotler heard the clacking of keys from a laptop. He watched as Denzel eased slowly up to one of the screens that hid Patel and the other man.

  Kotler wasn’t much for staying put. He knew this was a character flaw. But seeing his friend facing down an unknown threat tended to make him uneasy. Kotler searched the tables nearby, and spotted something that looked like a small wheel axel—a metal rod about three feet long, and half an inch thick. He carefully picked this up and hefted it, testing its weight. It would do in a pinch.

  Kotler started moving, though he was taking a more indirect route. He wanted to get to an angle where he might be able to see around that screen. He tried to stay close enough that he could be backup for Denzel, if something happened, but far enough to be out of the way.

  Denzel, for his part, was edging closer, peeking around the screen to assess what was happening.

  “What’s that?” Patel said loudly, nervously.

  Things moved quickly from there.

  Denzel rounded the edge of the screen, weapon leveled and trained on someone out of Kotler’s line of sight. “FBI, drop your weapon! Down! Get down!”

  There was a shot fired then, and Kotler watched Denzel leap sideways and take cover, then return fire.

  Kotler raced forward now, stooped low and angling toward the far wall, with the screen and Denzel to his right. From his new vantage point, he could now see into the workspace. Simon Patel was cringing on the other side of a large, wooden table, covering his head with both hands.

  Another man—no one Kotler recognized—had fallen back, pulling a large, rolling toolbox in front of him for cover. He was brazen about standing and firing at Denzel, who had only a thin wooden screen for protection. Denzel sprinted now, diving over a table and scattering its contents to the floor in a huge racket.

  From his vantage point, Kotler could see that Denzel still had line of sight on the man, but it wasn’t a very strong position.

  There was little Kotler could do to help. He could see no way to skirt the edge of the room and get behind the shooter without being noticed. If he’d had a gun, he could easily have taken the guy out from this vantage point, at this distance. But despite being trained, licensed, and qualified on a variety of firearms, the FBI hadn’t yet granted him permission to carry, deeming it unnecessary for a consultant. Maybe this scenario would convince them.

  If they survived.

  Denzel was returning fire, but he was at a great disadvantage. He had flipped the table to provide more cover, and the wood was provi
ng tough enough to block incoming fire from the shooter’s handgun. But it wouldn’t be long before a shot got through, and Denzel was a sitting duck.

  The man fired two more rounds, apparently as cover, and leapt forward. He grabbed a weathered and beaten book from the workbench where Patel had stood, a few loose pages or sheets of paper feathered out from its edges. And then he yanked the cable of a card reader hard enough to rip it from the laptop it was attached to, before standing back and putting a round through the laptop’s casing.

  Holding everything he’d gathered in one hand, he fired another couple of rounds to put Denzel’s head back down, and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

  Kotler moved then, watching where the man went. He spotted a gap, previously hidden by the screen—a tunnel entrance. It was the only place the man could have gone.

  “He’s made a break for it!” Kotler shouted at Denzel, who was immediately on his feet and running for the screen and the tunnel beyond.

  “You see to Patel,” Denzel said, before ducking and disappearing through the bricked alcove.

  Kotler sprinted toward the screened area, wheel axel still in hand. “Dr. Patel?” he asked.

  Patel was shaking, but looked up, cautiously.

  “I’m with the FBI,” Kotler said, showing his consultant ID but not bothering to clarify that he wasn’t an agent. “You’re safe, but I need you to stay right here. Understand? You’re only safe if you stay right here.”

  Patel nodded, and Kotler took off after Denzel.

  The corridor on the other side of the room was similar to what he and Denzel had used to come in from the apartments, with the exception of having its own lighting, and a higher ceiling. Someone had modernized it at some point, Kotler observed.

  The tunnel branched at a T at the end of a short hall. Kotler saw Denzel ahead, scanning both directions as Kotler caught up.

  “I told you to stay with Patel!” Denzel said between gnashed teeth.

  “You need backup,” Kotler said.

  “You’re not armed.”

  Kotler held up the axel. “I beg to differ, sir.”

  “You’re not armed,” Roland repeated. “Stay here. I mean it, Kotler.”

  Roland then sprinted down the left branch.

  “You’re sure he went that way?” Kotler called after him.

  “No!” Roland shouted back.

  Good enough, Kotler thought, and turned to race down the right-hand branch.

  These passages were still underground, despite Kotler and Denzel having come into the chamber on an incline. There must have been a hill or some other rise on the surface. Since entering these tunnels, Kotler had lost all sense of what might be above them.

  He raced along, even as the corridor began to slant upward.

  Suddenly he came to a wall. This time, armed with his previous experience, he knew just where to look for its mechanism. He felt around, pushing and testing, until he came to the release. With a click, the door opened inward, and Kotler cautiously peered through to the other side.

  This time, the space beyond was well organized—filled with book cases and shelves full of artifacts and other objects. All of it looked familiar, even comforting. The annals of research and academia. Kotler would recognize them anywhere. This was either a library or a museum, and suddenly Kotler suspected he knew exactly where this tunnel had led.

  He moved cautiously among the stacks, keeping low and hidden. The gunman could still be here, and Kotler was mostly unarmed, despite his bravado. It was starting to hit him that this was a really dumb idea. Certainly not his first, but he’d have to labor hard to make sure it wasn’t his last.

  After a moment, Kotler came to a metal stair case, to the right of which was a boxy elevator in an open shaft of metal scaffolding—the sort of lift that was added well after the building’s completion. From the looks of this one, and its collapsible metal-grating doors, Kotler figured it had been added some time in the 40s or 50s, along with these stairs.

  He stepped gingerly onto the first step, glancing back to make sure no one was hiding in the stacks behind him. Then he quickly made his way up to the flight above, and through a door that was closed, but not locked.

  He found himself emerging into a larger space filled with shelves, every inch of it clean and categorized, ready for public use. The shelves stretched in all directions, lining the floors in a neat grid, and each was filled with books. Here and there were tables where patrons sat, reading or taking notes or tapping away on laptops and smart tablets.

  Welcome to the Westminster Research Library, Kotler thought, his initial suspicions confirmed. He’d been here before, and recognized it immediately.

  He reached back into the stairwell and leaned the axel rod against the wall, so he would look less conspicuous as he moved among the library patrons. Though that did, of course, leave him without a weapon, which might put him at a serious disadvantage if he encountered the gunman. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

  He left the door closed behind him, making his way through the stacks and shelves, watching warily for any sign of the gunman. He’d seen the man’s face, though from across a dimly lit room. He felt sure he could recognize him.

  The library was quiet except for the occasional cough or mumbled conversation, and of course, the sounds of Kotler’s footsteps. Kotler straightened his collar and brushed back his hair with a hand, hoping he wasn’t covered in dirt or grease. He needed to blend in.

  From where he now stood he could see a fair bit of the place, including exits to other wings and to the exterior of the building. Where would a gunman rush off to? What path would he use for escape, without causing a commotion or drawing too much attention?

  The likely choice, Kotler concluded, would be an exit to the outside. And the closest exit to Kotler’s current position was about twenty feet to his right.

  Kotler moved to this door, and cautiously opened it, peering through a crack to make sure no one waited with a gun on the other side. When things seemed clear, he pushed out into the London day.

  This part of the library grounds was an alley of sorts, running between two wings toward Orange Street. The space was a bit tight for Kotler’s comfort, with nowhere to take cover if something went sideways, but it seemed clear enough. He made his way to the street, and was startled to nearly bump into the gunman the moment he turned a corner.

  There was a pause. “Pardon me,” the gunman said in his distinctly American accent, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, where he surely had the gun concealed. Kotler saw the book, with its loose pages, tucked under the man’s arm. The card reader must be in a coat pocket as well.

  The man didn’t recognize Kotler. In fact, he might not have even known that Kotler had been there, in the underground workshop.

  “No, it’s entirely my fault,” Kotler said, forcing a smile. “You’re American? It’s good to hear a familiar accent.”

  The man nodded, and tried to walk away, but Kotler pushed it a bit, following along just to the man’s side.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve just arrived here, and I was so anxious to see the library, I somehow left my bags at the airport. Such an idiot,” Kotler smiled, rolling his eyes. “And unfortunately, my wallet is in one of the bags. Would you be willing to share a cab with me? I could pay you for the fare, once I …”

  “No, sorry,” the man said. “I have to go.” He turned and walked away, and Kotler hung back for a moment before crossing Orange Street and following the man from the other side. Kotler stayed out of sight, and had to hurriedly cross back when the man took a left turn on Charing Cross Road, cutting through a small, wooded park. Kotler used the trees to keep hidden.

  His phone buzzed, and Kotler cautiously answered, hanging back to stay out of sight, but keeping the man in visual range.

  “Where the hell are you?” Denzel asked, his voice tense and angry.

  “I have eyes on our guy,” Kotler said.

  There was a pause. “Wh
at’s you’re location?”

  Kotler gave him the cross streets and his general location, plus the direction the man was moving. “I’m staying back, watching. He’s definitely headed somewhere.”

  “Stay completely out of sight, but don’t lose him,” Denzel said. “And for God’s sake, do not engage him. I’m here with Patel, and I’m taking him up and through the exit I found. There was another one of those secret doors, and it opened into maintenance tunnels. There’s an access at street level. I have some Scotland Yard folks meeting me there in a few minutes. I can get back to the car and come to you soon. Keep your phone on silent, but check it.”

  “Done,” Kotler said, hanging up and pressing on.

  He had managed to keep up with the man until now, but after a few blocks things started to get crowded. Kotler risked closing the gap a bit, sticking to the other side of the street and coming nearly parallel with the gunman.

  The man was walking with his head down. He’d pulled on a pair of dark sunglasses, and had the collar of his coat popped, and the book apparently shoved into the coat’s inner pocket. He looked conspicuous, but it might have been a necessary risk. Kotler glanced up and saw clusters of cameras mounted on street lamps at regular intervals, like high-tech coconuts—London surveillance at its finest. The man was trying to keep his face from being recorded.

  Kotler, on the other hand, really had no such restrictions. In fact, he stopped in view of one set of cameras, waved his arms in front of them, then texted Denzel his current location, along with a note to have Scotland Yard start tracking him. “I’ve made it easier to spot me,” Kotler wrote, and hit send.

  While he’d had his eyes on his phone, however, he’d lost track of the gunman.

  Cursing, Kotler moved forward quickly, keeping his eyes open, alert for any sign of the man. He was scanning the other side of the street, pausing to look down any side streets or alleys. The truth was, the man could have entered any building along the way. Kotler had been a fool to text instead of calling. What had he been thinking?