Lack of an amorous encounter had left Sir Richard in petulant mood and he swept them from the house, too worked up to notice the bundle under the reporter’s arm. As Jake descended the staircase one question confounded him. Why would Hess mark the beam with his initials? It drew attention to the very place he intended to keep secret. Suddenly the answer came, and Jake saw the Deputy Führer must have had a degree of cunning after all. The nearby Beauchamp Tower was renowned for the graffiti famous inmates had added during their incarceration – the inscriptions were now protected by Perspex screens. Hess must have calculated that as a person of historical significance, his initials would ensure the planks remained untouched. Sir Richard opened the front door with a bark of farewell. Jake stepped onto the green – and walked right into Charlie Waits.
“Wolsey, my dear old thing,” said Waits. “Fancy seeing you here.”
The spymaster was flanked by Davis and Parr, and when he saw the papyrus bundle his eyes seemed to retract into his head.
“Give it to me,” he said in a voice that quivered with want.
“You can’t have it,” said Jenny. “It’s not for you, Charlie.”
There was silence as the spymaster digested this impudence.
“How did you three get past the sentries?” snapped Sir Richard. He glared at the scarlet-clad guardsman. “What the hell are you playing at, man?”
“They’re MI6, sir,” shouted the soldier. “Had to let them through, sir.”
“MI6?” repeated Sir Richard in a voice of wonder.
Jake punched Charlie Waits in the face.
The journalist couldn’t say where the impulse had come from – he had never hit a man in his life. But his powerful shoulders lent the blow force and Waits sprawled on his back like an upended turtle.
Surprise bought them a three-second head start.
*
Jake and Jenny were sprinting across open space: it was a killing ground. Now Davis would execute them, right here, in front of hundreds of tourists. He reached for his pistol with an automatic movement – and withdrew thin air.
The assassin had been forced to leave his weapon outside due to the search. Waits had thought it best to go incognito, for if force was needed they could commandeer the troops. Davis stood stupefied as the pair dashed across the courtyard, flightless ravens bounding from their way.
Jake sensed Jenny falling behind and grabbed her by the hand, hauling her along as soldiers fanned across the citadel. They were being penned in.
Only one option was left open: the White Tower. They fled up the steps and into the keep.
A potbellied knight reared up in front of them on his armoured horse: this was the battle armour of Henry VIII, and they were inside the Royal Armoury. Display cabinets bristled with weaponry. There were cutlasses and rapiers, muskets and pistols, every device of murder that could be dreamt up by man and inlaid with jewels. Davis and Waits pursued the pair inside, leaving Parr at the entrance to make clear that what transpired within was MI6 business. Sir Richard was compelled to obey, remaining with the troops and furious at this emasculation.
Alarms had sounded and the public streamed past Jake and Jenny in the opposite direction as they were forced ever-upwards. They sprinted through a Norman chapel to emerge into a hall that glittered with axes and daggers; a curator stood by an open cabinet.
“There’s a fire alarm,” said the curator. “You can’t be here.”
“Get out of my way,” Jake shouted.
Footsteps were closing in, but the curator folded his arms, feet wide apart. “You. Out. Now.”
Davis and Waits appeared in the hall behind them. From the display case Jake snatched the cutlass of Oliver Cromwell – there was a dent where a Royalist musket ball had struck the blade – and he ran the tip between the curator’s throat and navel.
“I said, out of my way!”
The curator raised his hands and flattened himself against the wall. “Ok, ok, take it easy mate …”
They rushed past, Jake still grasping the cutlass. Waits grabbed the sword of the Mad King George, inlaid with a golden coat of arms; Davis took an executioner’s axe.
Jake and Jenny fled deeper into the Tower, through chambers which have forgotten more stories than most rooms possess. They arrived at a spiral staircase where sightseers were sent back to ground level by process of convection.
Four squaddies blocked the exit.
The soldiers had been loitering in the keep when the alarm sounded, and at the sight of Jake with his cutlass they gave a cry of glee at having something to do during a tedious deployment. So the hunted pair found themselves charging up instead of down, ascending a staircase closed to the public. Even as he fled Jake knew they must confront the hydra, for the staircase could only lead to one destination. And suddenly they were staggering onto the roof of the White Tower, the sensation of space overwhelming.
“What now?” panted Jenny.
“This,” said Jake, fumbling in his pocket for a lighter.
Before he could ignite the papyri two figures emerged from the keep.