Bogna made the trip to central London in record time, negotiating the bus lanes with ease. By her own admission, she was starting to enjoy driving Alan’s “taxi-car.”
The meter read £1020.20 as the Fairway cab circled Hyde Park Corner and arrived on the wide swath of Piccadilly, lined with grand stone facades and exclusive hotels. To the north, the former mansions of London’s seventeenth-century elite were now home to upscale stores and private clubs. To the south, Green Park was buried under a carpet of autumnal leaves, its foliage reduced to a row of skeletal trees. The thoroughfare in the middle was awash with black cabs, one of which indicated right, but turned left, incurring the wrath of several motorists. This particular black cab then turned onto Down Street.
Compared to its busy neighbor, Down Street was quiet and residential. The classical white stone was replaced by ordinary redbrick facades, lined with black railings.
Darkus signaled to Bogna to pull over, seeing the former Tube station on their left, secreted within a row of apartment buildings. Although it was redundant and lacking any identifying signs, the station retained its trademark London Underground pillars and arches, decked out in ox-blood red glazed tiles. A drab-looking general store occupied the central archway. The archways on either side of it contained an entrance to a small alley and a narrow gray door with a warning sign on the front.
Darkus set his phone to forward calls to Bogna’s cell phone and told her to stay put and wait for Uncle Bill. Darkus had called the hospital again on the way, and the nurses told him his uncle was still sleeping—but he couldn’t sleep forever, or at least Darkus hoped not. Bogna was to let Bill know exactly where they were and request reinforcements.
“Just get Alan home in one pieces,” she said, making the sign of the cross.
“I’ll do my best,” said Darkus, getting out of the cab and holding the door for Tilly to follow.
The two of them approached the station. Darkus tried the narrow gray door, which was locked tight, while Tilly checked the alley entrance.
Darkus entered the general store and surveyed the walls and ceiling for any points of access. He deduced that this had once been the ticket office. Now the walls were a flat white and lined with tall shelves of canned food. There were no interior doors apart from an old one that had been painted shut and barricaded by a heavy display refrigerator containing drinks and frozen foods. The general store offered no means of entry into the station.
“You want to buy something or what?” demanded the man behind the counter.
“Thank you, but you don’t have what I’m looking for,” Darkus said, and exited the shop.
He saw Bogna waiting patiently, parked opposite. Then Tilly reappeared from the alley and silently beckoned him to follow her. Darkus turned the corner to find her removing a crowbar from her backpack and jamming it into a small steel air vent set into the side wall of the station. The vent was circular in shape, and not wide enough for an adult—but just about wide enough for Tilly and Darkus.
At that moment, two policemen passed the archway, walking the beat. One of the officers turned, spotting them, and stopped for a closer look. Tilly quickly concealed the crowbar behind her back, while Darkus made a show of examining the old station, then tipped his tweed hat.
“School project,” he said convincingly.
The policemen nodded kindly and walked on.
Darkus and Tilly turned back to the vent to find a large black crow standing guard on the ledge above. It flapped its wings threateningly, staring at them with dead eyes and strutting on the spot.
“Not a good omen,” said Tilly.
“It’s just a bird—”
Suddenly the crow squawked and hopped down onto Tilly’s head, digging its talons into her hair.
“Get off!” she cried out, swatting at it.
The crow quickly hopped from her head to Darkus’s, knocking his hat to the ground. Then, just as quickly, the bird flapped away under the archway and into the sky beyond the station.
Darkus grabbed his hat, dusted it off, and replaced it on his head.
“Definitely not a good omen,” said Tilly, watching the sky.
“Coincidence,” Darkus rationalized.
Tilly collected herself, locating a discarded crate and using it as a step to get a better angle on the vent. She prized away the grille, and within seconds her head and shoulders had vanished into the hole in the wall, leaving only her booted feet kicking and wriggling, until they too disappeared.
Darkus looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then stepped up onto the crate, removed his hat, and slid into the vent after her.
He found himself in a cramped metal tube with Tilly’s slim outline ahead of him, slithering toward a dim fluorescent light in the distance. His herringbone coat provided relatively little friction, and he slid easily along behind her, deeper into the wall of the station.
Nudging her backpack in front of her, Tilly reached the other end of the vent and used the crowbar to bash out the grille that covered it. She popped her head through to find she was approximately ten feet above a wide circular floor. A dim fluorescent strip was the only light source. She dropped her backpack to the floor, and it landed with a dull thud. Then she reached out with the crowbar and wedged it between two overhead pipes to form an improvised gymnastic bar. She held on and pulled the rest of her body out of the vent, swung from the bar, and dropped gracefully to the concrete below.
Moments later, Darkus threw his hat down to her. She caught it and watched as he slightly less gracefully grabbed hold of the crowbar, hauled himself out, and dropped down to the station floor beside her. She handed him his hat, which he planted back on his head, and they took in their surroundings.
They were in a large, circular room, which had been gutted and was almost entirely covered in dust. Pipes and cables snaked across the walls, but there were no visible doors or windows. Darkus examined the walls, then counted his strides to estimate the location of the general store.
“If that was the ticket office, this must have been the elevator shaft . . . originally for two elevators,” observed Darkus. “It’s been floored over.”
“So what are we supposed to do now?” asked Tilly, looking slightly panicked. “We can’t get back up to that vent.” They looked up to see the crowbar still wedged overhead, useless.
Darkus roamed around the room, examining the circular floor. “This is a reinforced concrete baffle, to defend against bombs. They would have built more of them at intervals down the shaft. Which means there has to have been . . .” He stopped, finding something at his feet. “A door.”
Tilly caught up with him by a wooden door set into the floor at the edge of the room. Darkus pulled the rope handle and swung it open to find a rusting metal ladder, descending under the floor at an angle. Tilly fished in her backpack and took out an LED head mounted light, which she strapped on. She angled her head, and the beam of light picked out another identical circular chamber beneath them. This one had fire escapes attached to the wall, leading down some thirty feet or so to another concrete baffle. There was an overpoweringly wet, stagnant smell coming from the bowels of the station.
Without speaking, Tilly went first to illuminate the way and Darkus followed, descending through the floor on the rusted metal ladder.
The two small figures slowly traversed the curving walls, which were dug out of the subterranean rock and secured with ribs of steel and rows of rivets. The ladder squeaked and complained, but neither one of them said anything. Darkus looked down, watching each foot carefully locate the next step. Suddenly the word “vivisepulture” appeared in his mind, from the spelling competition. The definition: buried alive. He tried to ignore the catastrophizer, which was telling him that this was a derelict building, unlikely to be structurally sound, and even if Bogna was able to reach Uncle Bill, it would be hours before anyone could find them. Casting these thoughts out of his mind, he continued to follow the dim beam of light coming from Tilly’s forehead.
They reached the floor of the second concrete baffle and found another wooden door at their feet. Darkus opened it and Tilly trained the light through it, discovering a third, identical chamber another thirty feet below them.
“How far down does it go?” she asked.
“I’d guess about one hundred feet in total. Which would mean there’s one more baffle below that one. Then we reach subway level.”
Tilly shook her head, making their shadows dance from the light of the lamp. She led the way again, descending another set of rusted fire escapes, these ones protesting even louder than the others. Finding a rhythm, they made quick progress, reaching the third baffle. Apprehensively, Tilly opened the third and hopefully final door in the floor and saw a rickety ladder descending another thirty feet to a short landing and a narrow metal footbridge. Beneath the footbridge was a gaping chasm that was too wide and deep for the headlamp to shed any light on.
They performed the same procedure again, finding the walls were covered in an even thicker layer of dust and grime.
“Did you know that dust is seventy percent human skin and hair?” remarked Darkus.
“Not helping,” Tilly replied. Then a breeze ruffled her hair. “What was that?” she whispered sharply.
Darkus felt it too. The breeze was becoming stronger by the second, rapidly swelling into a gale-force wind.
“It’s a draft,” said Darkus over the growing noise.
“A draft from what?”
“A train.”
“A what?!”
The blast of rank air was accompanied by a massive rumbling that reverberated through the entire station, shaking the walls. The rivets whined, quickly reaching screaming pitch. The ladder began jolting and rattling uncontrollably under their feet, trying to shake them off. Darkus lost his footing, the tails of his coat dangling over the abyss as he held on for dear life. He shifted his weight, regaining his balance.
“It’s traveling at full speed,” said Darkus over the roar. “Only another few seconds.”
As quickly as it had arrived, the rush of wind went into reverse as the air was sucked down the tunnels by the departing train. A second later, it was deathly quiet again.
“You said the station wasn’t in use,” Tilly whispered accusingly.
“Yes, but the tracks are,” replied Darkus, as if the assumption should have been obvious. “The trains run straight through.”
They reached the narrow metal footbridge. Below it was another drop into the elevator well: a circular sump that contained the remains of a giant fan that looked like the propeller of a sunken ship.
Tilly trained the light ahead, and they crossed the bridge to the opening of a large semicircular tunnel, dug deep into the rock.
“This is the exit for the elevators,” whispered Darkus. “It should lead to the platforms.”
“So?”
“That’s where Churchill’s HQ was. It had its own power and phone lines. If the Combination’s here, logically that’s where they would be.”
They walked softly down the length of the tunnel, the light picking out the familiar cream and maroon London Underground tiles. Pipes snaked idly along the walls and over their heads. Reaching the end of the tunnel, a faded sign still read: to the trains. Darkus followed an artistically rendered arrow around a corner to a steep descending staircase with a tubular railing down the middle and curving walls on either side. At the base of the steps was a small pool of fluorescent light.
Tilly switched off her hadlamp and they crept down the stairs, arriving at a T-junction between two platforms. To their right, the eastbound platform had been walled off to create a narrow corridor that ran the length of the track. To their left, a metal grate covered the entrance to what was once the westbound platform. On cue, another rush of air hurtled through the tunnels, followed by a seismic rumbling that shook the whole station.
In a flash, a westbound train sped past the metal grate, appearing only as a blur of gray and red with a row of lit windows. Passengers on the train would later recall seeing what looked like two children watching them from inside the tunnel, but no one would report it for fear of being labeled either drunk or delusional.
A split second later, an eastbound train sped along the opposite platform out of sight, obscured by the walled corridor.
As the tail of the westbound train flashed past the grate, the air was sucked after it and the rumbling subsided.
Tilly opened her mouth to speak, until Darkus held up his hand.
They heard the unmistakable sound of a woman’s laughter echoing through the subway. Then the distinct sound of footsteps approaching quickly along the corridor on the eastbound platform. Darkus deduced from the sound that they were stilettos, and from the rhythm he deduced who they belonged to.
Darkus and Tilly retreated up the staircase as the glamorous figure of Bram Beecham’s assistant, Chloe, walked straight past the T-junction without a second glance. They prepared to move again, until a second set of footsteps followed Chloe’s. Darkus recognized these footsteps too, and signaled to Tilly to wait. They stood motionless on the staircase, Tilly holding her breath for fear of being heard.
Mr. Presto marched past the T-junction, then came to a halt, his equestrian boots swiveling, to inspect the cross passage. His nostrils twitched under the low brim of his hat, almost smelling their presence. Darkus and Tilly pressed themselves against the wall of the stairwell, exchanging a glance. After an agonizing few seconds, they exhaled as the booted footsteps continued down the eastbound corridor after Chloe’s. Moments later, a door opened and closed, blocking out any further sound.
Darkus peered around the corner of the stairwell and gave the all-clear. They crept out of the cross passage and into the eastbound corridor, which was lined with doors and curved on one side, conforming to the shape of the tunnel. The entire platform had been crudely converted into a row of dormitory rooms, resembling the cabins of an ocean liner. Dim lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling.
Darkus began checking the door to each dormitory, quietly but systematically. Tilly shadowed him, providing additional light with the headlamp. They found an old switch room lined with levers and heavy-duty fuse boxes. The entire room and all the machinery was painted gray to indicate it had been decommissioned. Next door was a bathroom, complete with toilet bowl and sink, all covered in several decades’ worth of dust.
They entered the next cubicle along and found a telephone exchange with tall banks of relays, wiring, and plugs hanging disconnected. The entire room and all its contents were also painted gray. Darkus quickly dismissed it and moved on.
As Tilly turned to follow him out, a shadow moved from behind the operator’s switchboard and grabbed her.
“Darkus!”
He turned back to see Tilly wincing as Chloe held a long, thin blade to her throat.
“Move. Now,” instructed Chloe.
She maneuvered them both out of the telephone exchange, using Tilly as a shield.
“Where’s my dad?” demanded Darkus.
Chloe shooed him down the corridor, marching them toward a door at the end. “Someone wants to see you,” she said.
Without warning, Tilly started coughing and clutching her throat.
Darkus turned, alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“My asthma,” she wheezed, pointing at her backpack.
“Help her. It must be the dust,” said Darkus, genuinely concerned.
“Should’ve thought of that before,” said Chloe.
“It’s me you want,” he reasoned. “You don’t want her death on your conscience.”
Chloe trained the blade on the nape of Tilly’s neck and allowed her to shuffle the backpack from her shoulders to the ground. Tilly unzipped the front compartment and went to fish inside.
“Ah-ah,” Chloe warned, pricking her with the knife.
“Ouch. All right,” said Tilly impatiently.
“Allow me,” said Chloe, and dipped her hand into the compartment, removing the asthma inhaler and passing it to Tilly.
“Thanks.” Tilly gave the inhaler a shake, then subtly angled the mouthpiece to point backward over her shoulder, directly at her assailant.
“Hurry up,” barked Chloe.
“Okay.”
Tilly pumped the inhaler, and a spurt of foam shot out of the mouthpiece, hitting Chloe dead in the forehead, but producing no apparent effect beyond a comic one.
Chloe burst out laughing. “What a genius toy!” She giggled, not noticing the foam expanding in all directions and sliding down her forehead. “What . . . ?” She felt the pepper burn her skin, the foam expanding to cover her eyes, gluing her eyelids closed. She clawed at her face, finding the substance stuck to her fingers. It progressed down her face like a custard pie, only this one was accompanied by scalding pain, which within ten seconds had reduced Chloe to an unconscious pile of rangy limbs.
Darkus looked at Tilly incredulously.
“School project,” she explained.
“Come on.” Darkus pushed through the next door along to find a disused kitchen, complete with sinks and counters. “He must be here somewhere . . .” Darkus moved from room to room with increasing speed and desperation. Tilly followed, helpless to slow him down.
Darkus reached the last door at the end of the corridor and pushed it open to find a frail figure bound to a gray metal chair, overpowered by his own shadow.
“Dad . . . !”