1
The Stone
One
A thatched stone cottage set between the slopes of two rugged mountains in the Highlands of western Scotland could not have been a more fit symbol of that nation’s colorful past. The man and woman seated before the peat fire burning in its hearth, however, were ostensibly discussing the country’s future, and their own. They were not as agreed on either topic as one of them supposed.
“The time is nearly at hand, my dear,” said the man. “Will he go along?”
“He will agree,” she replied. “How can he do otherwise? His career is at stake. We will make sure of that.”
“And you, Fiona—you have no doubt led him to believe that you will be part of that future with him?”
The speaker’s lips turned up in a cunning smile. But around their edges could be detected a hint of jealousy. In his heart lately he had grown anxious that his suspicion concerning her methods might indeed be correct.
“You do your part in your own way, Baen,” the woman replied, “and let me do mine. You handle the politics. I will insure his cooperation. What about the equipment?”
“It is being delivered next week.”
“Then we are set for the first week of February?”
“On schedule—three days before the coronation. By then we should be well on our way toward the victory which the Stone will secure. Are you sure you want to be part of the team?”
“Of course. You don’t think I would miss the climax of all we have worked for.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“I’ve seen danger before.”
“I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said, reaching across and attempting to take her hand. She pretended not to notice, however, and kept both hands safely cradling the warm cup between her palms.
“Nothing will happen to me,” she said.
“Then let us anticipate that day when our objective has been attained. When we next enjoy tea under this roof, snow will have blanketed the Highlands.”
“And we will have our prize,” she added.
The man nodded, raising his teacup to acknowledge her words. He thought to himself that two prizes would await him on that day, both the stone they sought and the beautiful woman sitting across from him at this moment. By then he would have eliminated all competitors for her affections.
“To Caledonia,” he said.
“To ancient Scotia,” she repeated, lifting her cup in answering gesture.
Two
The waters of the Thames flowed murky and silent.
From the black, glistening surface a thin mist rose as night descended. Gradually its white wispy fingers crept up past the high banks, extending out beyond the docks to probe London’s nearby streets.
With night came February’s familiar chill, the damp air easily enough finding the bones. By morning the city would be shrouded in the thick fog for which it was so well known.
A slender, wood-hulled river craft made its way slowly upriver under the Waterloo Bridge and past Charing Cross Pier, slicing through the current almost as noiselessly as it parted the low fog that clung to the west bank about fifty meters from shore. Only one man was aboard, standing in the small cabin at the controls. His speed was no more than two or three knots.
Not all history is written before the eyes of men. The destiny of his oft-forgotten nation would be reshaped during the silent, cold, misty hours of this night. Few would see what they did. But within twenty-four hours the whole world would take notice. He had planned this moment for ten years. His beloved land would soon rise again to rightful global prominence.
As the boat passed under Westminster Bridge and neared the Houses of Parliament, it slowed yet more, then gradually moved shoreward once it was past the bright reflection of the lights lining the terrace of the Palace.1 It floated to a standstill just past the wall of the fabled building where it bordered the Victoria Tower Gardens. The pause lasted but a few moments. A dull thud sounded from somewhere below the hull, the signal that his hidden cargo was off.
With the lines he had been dragging now safely disconnected, the boat’s pilot throttled forward and continued upriver, faster now in the shadows of the bare maples of the gardens, under Lambeth Bridge and toward Battersea. He would return this way an hour before dawn. And his morning cargo would be heavier by several hundreds of pounds.
Below the surface, four wet-suited figures swam toward the bottom of the black, grimy waters. Now began their phase of this treacherous and momentous mission. When again the light of day rose, they would either be dead, behind bars, retreating in defeat, or safely skimming northward on the open seas with their quarry. The next few hours would determine which. In the meantime, they had work to do.
It was low tide, so they were not as far beneath the surface as they might have liked. But entry now was necessary so that their escape would come when the tide was in, obscuring their movements with several additional feet of black water.
The lead diver switched on the underwater spotlight atop his head. He could see no more than two or three feet before them, but that would be enough. Should anyone above observe the strange underwater light, it would be indistinguishable from the multitude of reflections shimmering off the surface from brightly lit Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament.
They had run test drills with the equipment deep in Loch Ness. No monster had made an appearance, but they had worked the bugs out of this first tricky phase of the operation. Now the leader swam confidently as he led the others toward shore. His job was to find and open the long disused sewer hatch. The other three wriggled behind, keeping close to the light, each dragging a heavy watertight container of equipment and supplies.
They reached the upward incline of the river’s edge, which sloped up to the perpendicular cement embankment above the surface. The motion of gloved hands and finned feet stirred up a silent storm of mud and grime. Carefully they backed away. The bobbing headlight slowly panned back and forth to help them get their bearings. They had budgeted half an hour to locate the secret door, buried now below six inches or more of silt. For that purpose each of the four now produced three-foot metal rods, with which in orderly pattern they began probing the grid of the bottom with slow up-and-down motion.
Above them onshore, two hundred yards or so south from the point where the river boat had mysteriously slowed, a figure moved leisurely along the sidewalk of Lambeth Bridge. A thick coat hung around his shoulders, and a wool cap shielded eyes and forehead. The only sign of life he showed besides his slow movement across the bridge toward Lambeth Pier on the opposite side, then back again toward Millbank, was an occasional orange flare from the end of the cigarette dangling between his lips. The smoke that followed from nose and mouth was quickly lost in the night.
Next to the cigarette, however, had one been able to probe close enough to see it, a miniature microphone was attached both to a speaker in one ear and a high-powered transmitter in his pocket. In his hands he carried a pair of binoculars. If danger appeared, all except the cigarette would find themselves at the bottom of the Thames in short order. For the moment they kept him in touch with the skipper of the boat, who had disappeared under him and upriver, and the four divers somewhere in the murky flow nearby. Not that the walker could do them much good from here. But if he detected any unfriendly activity from his riverbank vantage point, the others would at least have a few seconds’ warning.
No messages passed. The night remained quiet above and below.
All of London seemed quiet, calmly awaiting the coronation of its new king three days hence.
Three
A dull clang sounded at the end of one of the probing rods.
Hand motions quickly brought the other three to the site. The light scanned the bottom. Several hands carefully brushed back the accumulated mud so as to avoid rendering further visual search impossible.
They needn’t have worried. They had discovered what they sought—a circular hatch about two feet in diameter.
Their leader now set about to open it according to the instructions for which they had paid dearly. Whether an inrush of water would follow, or whether the chamber behind the door was already flooded, he had no way of knowing.
He motioned to the others to back away. If the river poured in, one casualty would be enough.
In less than five minutes, with the equipment brought for that purpose, he had unfrozen the valve. Now he wrenched it counterclockwise with two or three jerking motions of the crowbar. He felt the seal break. No vacuum-rush from the river resulted. If the chamber behind it was full of mud, their mission would be over before it had begun.
He continued to turn the valve till the hatch was free, then pulled open the cover. He sent his light probing inside. The cavity appeared full of water and perhaps remnants of sewer sludge. He signaled to the others, then turned, gave his fins a few quick kicks, and slowly disappeared inside. One at a time his colleagues followed, pulling their bags in behind them.
The moment all were safely inside the decompression chamber and past threat of detection in the river, three more lights burst on. The last now closed the hatch behind them, turning the inner valve tight. At the far end their leader had already located the drain valve, while a third quickly went to work to loosen the large valve-wheel on the hatch leading to the network of tunnels that would take them to their destination.
Almost instantly the thick, sludgy water began to recede. In another five minutes they were able to remove headgear and again breathe air that did not come through rubber tubes. Stale air, to be sure, but now they could get rid of their diving equipment.
Hastily they pulled off oxygen tanks and wetsuits, stashing them for later. One by one they climbed out and into the first of many tunnels they would explore that night.
One minute later, the walker outside on Lambeth heard a single message through his earpiece.
“We’re in.”
Four
Far to the north, unaware of the events in progress destined to change his life forever, Andrew Trentham drove through the night toward his home in Cumbria in the north of England. He had spent that same morning in the very building under which these clandestine events were now taking place. For it was in Westminster Palace that Andrew Trentham served his nation and his constituents as a member of Parliament.
At present, however, Trentham was not thinking of his duties in the House of Commons, his role in Tuesday’s coronation, nor the election that would follow a month or two afterward.
In his memory loomed the faces of two women.
The one he loved, yet without knowing how to express it. He would see her not long from now, and was not particularly looking forward to the meeting.
The other he thought he loved. Only hours before, he had intended to seal that love with lifelong commitment. Her words from today’s luncheon date rang over and over in his brain.
“I’m sorry, Andrew,” she had said, “but I am going to have to break it off.”
He had sat momentarily as one stunned. As he stared across the table, his fingers unconsciously fidgeted inside his coat pocket with a tiny box. It contained the ring he had planned to give her that day.
Had she had some premonition of what he was about to do? How could she possibly have picked that very moment to deliver such a devastating message?
“But . . . but what are you saying, Blair?”
Bewildered, he fumbled for words. “What do you mean?” he went on. “Why . . . why now?”
“I think it’s best we do not see each other for a while,” she replied coolly, her deep blue eyes not quite meeting his. “I need some time to think.”
“Think,” he repeated. “Think about what?”
“About us, Andrew.”
“What about us? I thought—”
“Please, Andrew,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to argue with you. I’ve considered this for several days. I’m convinced it’s for the best. At least for my best,” she added.
He had glanced away, shaking his head in disbelief. How could she sound so cold and distant? Suddenly this woman across from him had become a stranger.
Trentham sighed, trying to force himself back to the present. Now the other face returned into his mind’s eye—his mother’s. She had always approved of Blair, even pushed him subtly toward deeper involvement. He knew well enough that she would not be pleased with news of their break-up.
He did his best to concentrate on the road ahead of him. The memory of today was too painful. He didn’t want to think about it.
But he couldn’t help it. He had to think about it. Never had anything so jolted him. How could he have so misread the signs? The engagement ring still lay at the bottom of his coat pocket.
Had he been a fool all along? Or had something suddenly changed in Blair’s life that he was not aware of? If so, why wouldn’t she tell him?
He was glad it was the weekend. A day or two in the country might not remove today’s sting. But of one thing he was certain—he couldn’t face throngs of people just now.
Tomorrow he would go for a long walk in the hills. That might be the tonic to put this unexpected emotional catastrophe behind him . . . if he managed to break it to his mother in a way she could accept without conveying by her silence that she blamed him for what had happened.
That’s the one thing he didn’t need—one more aspect of his life for her to disapprove of.
In the tunnels beneath the Palace of Westminster, the four black-clad figures hastened toward their appointment with antiquity.
They needed no map to negotiate the maze. This intricate network of passageways had been drilled into their brains during the year of preparation for tonight’s historic theft—the preparation for which had begun a week following the Queen’s announcement. That had been the moment they knew the Stone would be brought again to England and thus give them their opportunity.
The equipment they carried was heavy but necessary for what would follow. They had now left that portion of the maze which had formerly been part of London’s sewer system and were walking upon a relatively dry, rocky surface.
This portion of the tunnel had been dug almost sixty years before, during the war, as an underground refuge and means of escape should German bombs threaten while Parliament was in session. But it had never been used for such a purpose. Instead, it had been walled up in the early 1950s and since then nearly forgotten. But that had not prevented the Irish Republican Army from learning of its existence and gradually developing elaborate and accurate drawings of the maze with the thought on the part of its more radical element of one day blowing up the entire Palace and the members of Parliament with it.
Cooler heads, however, had prevailed. The plans had eventually come into the hands of other conspirators with their own ideas for changing the political face of the British Isles. That their plan was less violent in nature did not mean that, if successful, it would not have equally widespread repercussions toward the nationalistic ends its people sought.
Arrived at length at the end of the passage, at a point slightly north of the Jewel Tower between it and the Millbank, the four walkers stopped and set down their equipment.
It was ten fifty-three. They had allowed three hours for the task of boring through approximately two hundred twenty-five feet of dirt and rock to a point that would bring them directly under the Abbey. They had already traversed about six hundred feet from the tunnel entrance. Quickly and silently, three sets of hands began assembling the various arms and levers of the borer, while the other two put together the engine and compressor to drive it. Thanks to Chunnel technology and the resources of their financial backer, their equipment was state of the art. They had no doubt they would arrive at their destination under the Abbey ahead of schedule.
Outside, the river-walker crushed one cigarette under his foot and lit another. As he did, a few more words came through his earpiece. He took in the information, then signaled the boat, which was by now docked upriver to wait.
“Ferguson,” came the voice over the radio in the galley where the leader of the expedition lay.
He sat up, grabbed the microphone sitting next to the radio, and acknowledged the call.
“They’re about to begin drilling,” said the watcher.
“Where are you?”
“On the bridge.”
“Make your way up Millbank, then. Any activity otherwise?” asked the man called Ferguson.
“Don’t see anything.”
“How about the river?”
“Only the Fuel and Lubrication Services boats.”
“Anyone on them?”
“No one. They’re all moored in a row. Otherwise quiet as a tomb.”
“Just make sure it stays that way. Let me know if there’s a change.”
Six
Outside the Palace of Westminster, Big Ben struck eleven o’clock.
In her residence the Speaker retired to her bed. In those portions of the Palace which concerned them, custodial and security staff went about their business and rounds.
Shortly after the ringing of the half-hour thirty minutes later, a dull sound reverberated through the basement regions of the parliamentary buildings in a direction that seemed to come from underneath the Victoria Tower. Briefly the ground shook. As no one was present in the lower level, however, it was scarcely heard.
A floor above, a uniformed security officer momentarily glanced about.
“What was that?” he said to his colleague.
“What?” asked the other.
“Didn’t you feel it?”
“I felt nothing. What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. It almost . . . but that’s impossible,” he added, shaking his head.
“What’s impossible?”
“It almost . . . for a moment I thought I felt an earthquake.”
“Now I know you’re going loony, mate!”
“You’re probably right—don’t even know what one feels like. But for just the briefest instant the ground seemed to tremble.”
“Probably just the tube rumbling by.”
“Why have I never felt it before, then?”
It was silent a moment.
“Maybe I imagined it,” he added at length. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”
Seven
In his bed in Cumbria, Andrew Trentham lay awake. Blair was still on his mind.
What time was it? he wondered. It must be one or two in the morning.
He had arrived at the estate sometime after eleven. He had spoken briefly with his mother and father, but with some maneuvering had managed to avoid the subject of Blair. He would tell them about her tomorrow. He wasn’t up to it tonight.
Besides, what could he tell them? He was still confused about it himself.
What had happened? he asked himself for the fiftieth time.
Where had the relationship taken such a wrong turn?
He thought back to the night they had first met three years before. He had been smitten overnight. How could he help it . . . with that hint of a Swedish accent that betrayed her upbringing in Stockholm, where her father had served with the British Foreign Service . . . the long, lively blond hair and deep blue eyes that made her look more Scandinavian than English . . . the serious smile and the rare laugh?
Blair was beautiful, no doubt about that. Blair was intriguing, captivating.
But had Blair ever really loved him?
Maybe he had just deceived himself all along. He knew she saw other men from time to time, but he had assumed that the loyalty of his affections would win out in the end. Had it been wishful thinking from the beginning?
During the long drive north, he had tried to convince himself that he would go back to London next week and patch it up with her. They would talk and resolve whatever was on Blair’s mind. Then he would give her the ring.
But as he lay in the silence of the night replaying today’s conversation in his mind, Andrew realized he had been naive. Blair was not coming back. There was no mistaking the tone in her voice. As much as he might not want to recognize the fact, she didn’t want to make it up with him. The relationship was over.
The realization hurt. Not merely that he had lost her, but that he had been so oblivious that it was coming. How could he have been so blind as to be rehearsing words of proposal when his intended fiancée was getting ready to dump him!
He felt like a fool. Here he was a grown man, a member of Parliament, and a popular one at that. The moment the election date was announced, he would probably take a commanding lead in the polls to be returned to his seat in the House of Commons. And yet he felt like a jilted schoolboy.
In the black quiet of night, even the fact that he had a career that would be the envy of any man in Britain didn’t seem to matter. All he could think about was the loss of someone he had cared for.
Slowly Andrew Trentham dozed off into a fitful sleep, wondering vaguely to himself what his future held.
Eight
In London, another hour passed.
A janitor walked down the stairs into the southwest basement of Westminster Palace beneath the Royal Gallery.
A peculiar sound met his ear. He paused to listen. Whatever it was, he had never heard it before. It sounded almost like underground machinery. He turned and hurried back upstairs to alert security.
Five minutes later, two uniformed officers entered the basement. They cocked their heads and listened, then shrugged. Whatever it was, the sound had disappeared.
“I don’t hear anything,” said the man in charge. “But we probably ought to notify the Yard.”
I’ve nearly got this floor stone dislodged,” said a man’s voice. “—we’re almost through. Give me a hand.”
At the end of the tunnel they had just completed, the coordinator of the underground team of burglars motioned to the two other men. They squeezed in beside him and with a final effort shoved the ancient tile up and to one side. It slammed down upon its neighbors, sending a dull and stony echo into the blackness. The next instant, with hands busy helping and pushing, the first of them scrambled up into the once-again silent vault, then leaned back down to help up his three comrades.
Beams from four flashlights panned about as the intruders stood and looked around the chamber into which they had just broken. It contained surprisingly modern-looking equipment and racks of linen and priests’ robes.
“Where are we, Malloy?”
“In the laundry beneath the Chapter House,” answered the man called Malloy. “We’re next to the main floor. It won’t be long now.”
He proceeded to examine the walls and corners and recesses of the room, eventually satisfying himself of his bearings. “This way,” he said. “Through one more wall and we’re there.”
They followed with their equipment, and soon the final few yards of boring had begun. Thirty minutes later, the four stood in the south transept of the main floor of Westminster Abbey, in what was called Poet’s Corner.
“Keep quiet,” whispered Malloy. “Black Watch guards are stationed outside near all the entrances.”
“Where is the Stone?”
“Unless they’ve already moved it and the chair to the sanctuary, it should be just behind the Chapel of Edward the Confessor, where it was before. This way.”
Three figures hurried off, following the speaker. The fourth, however, stood as if in a daze, an uncharacteristic wave of historic nostalgia sweeping over her.
“Fiona, stop gazing about like a tourist,” said one of the men.
“But I’ve never been here before. There’s so much . . . history. . . .”
The young woman continued to gaze about. Now Malloy turned.
“Not our history, Fiona,” he said. “It’s England’s history. But not ours. This is an English monument, Fiona. Now come, this is no time for sightseeing. This is a time to make our ancestors proud.”
Almost reluctantly, she complied. In another few moments they were behind the historic chapel and standing before the coronation chair, under which rested the ancient and sacred Celtic stone.
“All right, lads and lassie,” said Malloy, “time for us to get to work so we can get out of here. The night is passing quickly. The tourists have had their two weeks gawking at it. Now it’s our turn.”
“I still don’t see why we didn’t just hide inside until the Abbey was closed for the night,” whispered one of the men as they set to work.
“That’s what the four students did fifty years ago,” replied their leader. “Since then they’ve tightened up security. If we tried that and then broke out through the door, we’d never make it past Parliament Square—especially trying to carry the Stone. We want to get in and out undetected. By the time this night’s over, we’ll have the Stone, the chair will still be in place, and our entry tunnel will be sealed. They won’t have a clue what happened. We’ll be down the Thames and those guards out front will still be standing freezing in their kilts.”
It took the better part of forty minutes to remove the coronation chair and dislodge the weighty chunk of sandstone from its resting place. At last they had it on the floor, securely wrapped in a thick blanket, and laced about with heavy carrying straps. With each of the four lifting the corners by the two sets of straps, the weight was easily managed.
Slowly they left the Chapel, this time through the North Ambulatory and around past the front of the chancel.
“What’s that little red light up there?” whispered Fiona.
The other three looked up.
“It’s a motion detector!” exclaimed one.
“Keep your voice down,” whispered Malloy angrily. “Everyone stop where you are.”
For several tense seconds he stared up at the tiny red spot, which was now flashing on and off rapidly. “How could we have been so careless?” he muttered.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s a silent alarm,” he replied. “It’s probably already sounding at Scotland Yard. I just hope we didn’t set one off when we came in.”
“I didn’t see anything till we came around this way.”
“We might have been lucky. No matter—we’ve tripped this one now, so we’re not doing any good standing here. Let’s go—we’ve got to move fast.”
Hurriedly they resumed their escape, retracing their steps to Poet’s Corner, where they had gained entry. Malloy and Fiona stepped down. Carefully, the remaining two eased their cargo through the opening after them. Malloy dragged it out of their way. They followed, replacing the grate above them. In another ten minutes, after much laborious pushing and shoving, the Stone and its four thieves stood again in the laundry, where their supplies and equipment still lay.
They set down their blanketed load to take a breather, then began moving toward the darkened tunnel from which they had come earlier.
“Get in . . . careful with the Stone,” said Malloy. “I’ll mix up the mortar and try to get this floor stone back in place after us. You three start back through the tunnel with the Stone. I’ll catch up with you. Even if one of us should happen to get caught, we’ve got to make sure the Stone is safe.”
Ten
Inspector Shepley of Scotland Yard glanced about the basement room under the Royal Gallery at the south end of the Palace of Westminster, to which he had been summoned. A half dozen of the Palace’s night security guards stood waiting, as if expecting him to see or hear or otherwise detect something suspicious.
All was silent and still.
“You say it felt like a momentary earthquake?” said Shepley, turning toward one of the men.
“I know it sounds a bit daft, sir. But I thought I felt the ground shake, just for a second.”
“And then?”
“Nothing more, sir. Been quiet ever since.”
“Probably a barge running into the embankment . . . or the tube.”
“The tube doesn’t run this time of night, sir.”
“Hmm, yes—you’re right. You checked everything else—all the entries, nothing on the security monitors, no alarms . . . the roof radar?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Shepley turned and headed back toward the stairs.
“Well, we’ll do a perimeter check,” he said, “and get the information from the monitors for all the doors and windows. Better to be safe, you know. In the meantime, station one of your men down here. If he hears anything else, or if he feels something, get in touch with me, and we’ll install a seismic monitor and get to the bottom of this.”
He led the way upstairs and toward the security headquarters for the Palace. Halfway there, however, the inspector’s mobile phone rang inside his coat.
Shepley pulled it out and answered it. The message was brief. He turned and headed for the outer exit.
“Sorry, men, you’re on your own here!” he said. “Whatever problems you’ve got will have to wait. It appears that someone’s just broken into Westminster Abbey!”
Eleven
As the river boat approached the rendezvous point, its skipper heard the unmistakable sounds of alarms going off in the city. And too nearby for comfort.
“What’s going on, Cruim?” he whispered anxiously into the radio.
“Don’t know,” said the lookout onshore.
“Have you heard from the others?”
“Ten minutes ago they were in the chamber suiting up. All but Malloy. He was behind them.”
“Well, they’d better be there or I’m not waiting around. Look, you’ve done your job for now. Wander over and see if you can tell what the commotion’s about.”
“If I get nabbed with this transmitter on me—”
“If you start to get nabbed, ditch it. Just get over there and find out if this has anything to do with us.”
At almost the same moment, sounds came from under the boat. Ferguson heard a splash, then a head appeared out of the water.
“Get us out of here, Ferguson,” it said.
“All of you attached? Where’s Fiona?”
“She’s here. We’re all here,” said Malloy. “—we’re ready. But take it slow.”
“You got it?”
“We’ve got it. But it’s heavy. We don’t want to lose it, or drown ourselves. Just get us past Charing Cross, then we’ll load in.”
“All right—get back out of sight.”
Ferguson throttled gently forward, then turned the wheel slightly and made for the center of the river.
Twelve
The main floor of Westminster Abbey rarely saw so much activity at the height of the tourist season as on this February morning between half past three and four in the morning. Two dozen uniformed policemen and plainclothes detectives from Scotland Yard moved about, looking for any sign of vandalism or intrusion.
Nothing was found disturbed, nor was a trace of life to be found, although admittedly there might easily be a thousand places for someone to hide.
“Search every corner,” called out Inspector Shepley, “and all the outer chapels. Whatever’s going on, we’ve got to make sure no one’s trying to sabotage the coronation.”
It might have taken an hour or more to find anything out of the ordinary had not one of the officers been a Scotsman who had been hoping for an opportunity to see the Stone of Scone during its two-week public display prior to the coronation and now moved as quickly as professionalism would allow in the direction of the Coronation Chair. A minute later his voice was heard throughout the Abbey.
“Back here, Inspector,” he cried. “The Stone is gone!”
Running footsteps brought everyone to the scene. There could be no doubt now as to the purpose of the break-in.
“Spread out!” ordered Shepley. “I want every inch of this place searched with a fine-toothed comb. They might still be here. If not, they couldn’t possibly have made off with the Stone without being noticed. I want it found!”
Six or seven minutes later Shepley was summoned. He hurried along the stone floor to the Poet’s Corner.
“Look, sir,” said one of the detectives, “right beside Sir Henry Irving and Sir Laurence Olivier . . . this last grate looks like it’s been tampered with.”
Shepley knelt down. The metal grate covering a subfloor ventilation shaft did indeed appear to have been recently moved.
“It couldn’t be possible. . . .” he mumbled to himself, already mentally assessing the size of the grate in relation to the Stone. The grate appeared about twenty-six inches wide—clearly sufficient for a human body to squeeze through, and probably wider than the Stone as well.
“And if you’ll permit me, sir,” the detective went on, “where the shaft extends under the wall, just there under the three Brontë sisters, there appears what looks to be a crack, sir.”
A half dozen flashlights instantly probed the spot.
The next instant, Shepley had the grate lifted for the second time that night and clanging upon the stone floor. He probed with his light into the tight, dark tunnel which was revealed beneath it.
“Get in there, someone—see where it goes.”
Two or three men scrambled and squeezed down into the floor to carry out his order. Moments later they had disappeared. Those clustered about the opening waited. Two minutes later, one of the men crawled back through.
“It’s a tunnel all the way to the basement laundry, Inspector.”
“Any sign of the Stone?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Let’s have a look. Come on, men.”
On hands and knees, a dozen of Scotland Yard’s finest now made their way until they emerged, standing once again, in the silent and little-known laundry of Westminster Abbey.
“Over here, Inspector,” called one of the first three, who had been examining the room as they came. “I think I may have found something.”
Shepley hurried to the scene and knelt down where he was pointing. Beams from a dozen or more flashlights illuminated the square of flagstone with a suspicious bead of strange coloration around its perimeter. Shepley probed its edge with a finger.
“The mortar’s still soft,” he said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “And a rather crude job of it. Whoever’s responsible must have been trying to seal this stone from underneath. What’s below here?” he said, turning to one of the Abbey guards who had followed.
“Nothing, sir,” the man replied. “This is the bottom level. Though they say there’s crypts all through the area.”
Shepley looked around to some of his men.
“Get it up,” he said. “Pry it loose however you can.”
Several knives and a screwdriver were produced. One of the edges was lifted slightly, then fingers and hands stooped to grab hold. The stone was lifted back and set aside. Flashlights immediately probed the tunnel below. It was clearly fresh, and larger than that through which they had crawled from the Abbey to the laundry. One of Shepley’s men climbed down, finding firm earth about five feet below the level of the floor. He directed his light into the passage leading away.
“What can you see?” Shepley called down.
“It’s a tunnel, all right . . . some leftover supplies, a small bag of dry mortar, the container they brought the water to mix it in.”
“Which way does it lead?” said Shepley.
“Seems to be east.”
“Toward the Parliament buildings!” exclaimed Shepley. “That’s what they heard over there.”
“Aren’t there some kind of old sewer drains and tunnels under Westminster Palace?” asked one of the men at his side.
“That’s got to be it,” said Shepley. He turned to the guard. “You have the keys to this place?”
The man shook his head. Already Shepley was on his way, scrambling on hands and knees back to the main floor of the Abbey. He stood and immediately took out his phone while those who were not involved in the search at the other end of the tunnel climbed out after him.
“Get the river patrol here!” he shouted. “All available units. I want every inch of the Thames lit up like noon. And send me in a chopper. I’m going up top. I’ll wait in Parliament Square!”
His men followed him through the Nave toward the door. As they ran, Shepley barked out orders to his assistant, then hurried outside and into the night to await his helicopter.
Thirteen
They’re on to you, Ferguson!” shouted a frantic voice over the small boat’s radio.
“What do you mean, Cruim?” crackled back a voice into the earpiece.
“It’s breaking loose, I tell you. There’s coppers and blokes from the Yard everywhere! The Abbey’s crawling with ’em, and half of ’em are making for the river. I think a helicopter’s heading this way.”
“Lose the equipment and get out of there!” shouted Ferguson.
He released the steering wheel and jumped briefly out on deck. He glanced from the river up toward the city. Lights from several police boats were moving out from Westminster Pier and beginning to probe the shoreline near where he had just been. Sirens were going off everywhere.
The sounds of helicopter blades sounded in the distance. Once a chopper was up overhead, it would all be over.
He hurried inside to the controls, throttled down slightly, and held the wheel steady straight across the river. He couldn’t go much faster, or he would lose the lines underneath. If they could just get close to the other bank . . .
For a long, tense minute he held on, then glanced back. The chopper appeared to be setting down somewhere behind the Parliament buildings. It would be in the air again in another twenty seconds.
Ferguson throttled back and cut the engine.
This would have to do! He ran astern, knelt over the side, and grabbed at the lines, giving each a hard tug. Two heads, now three, at last a fourth all surfaced.
“Get in, Malloy, Fiona . . . all of you,” he said urgently. “We can’t wait any longer.”
“We’re not far enough downriver.”
“I don’t know what you did,” replied Ferguson, pulling now one, now a second onboard, “but we’ve got Scotland Yard and the river police on our tail! I thought you were going to get out of there undetected.”
The rest now scrambled aboard, helping one another unload tanks and masks and equipment. Within thirty seconds they were all leaning down to lug aboard the cargo at the end of the final line for which they had labored most of the night.
The instant it was secure, Ferguson accelerated up to as much speed as he dared. Behind him, now the helicopter rose into the air, sending its spotlight probing in a wide arc across the surface of the Thames.
Ferguson veered downriver as he crossed it, now passing beneath Westminster Bridge. If he could just get past Hungerford Bridge, the Festival Pier beyond it would offer them cover. Enough boats were moored on the opposite side of the river that he might be able to sneak in behind one. Behind him the chopper careened about in wide, menacing arcs, its spotlight panning back and forth along the shoreline.
Several unmanned river-tour yachts were moored just ahead. Ferguson spun in behind one of them, throttled back, and cut the engine.
“Get out of sight inside the cabin!” he cried.
Four bodies dove for cover just as the helicopter’s beam scanned momentarily past them.
“He’ll be back,” said Ferguson. “Get the tanks and wetsuits and Stone down below and out of sight. I’ll work us through these boats ahead. With any luck we might be able to get downriver far enough that I can get up some speed and get us down to Gravesend.”
Again the chopper whirred overhead. When it was again past, all the equipment splashed overboard.
A few moments more they waited. Gradually the sound of the helicopter receded as it banked back across the river and headed in the opposite direction toward Battersea and Chelsea.
Ferguson carefully steered out between yachts and the shoreline for another two hundred yards, then eased out into the channel, turned downriver again, and revved up to fifteen knots.
They passed under Blackfriars Bridge without incident, then London Bridge, now picking up more speed and making for the mouth of the Thames. As they passed under the Dartford Bridge fifty minutes later, they were skimming along at thirty-five knots, and the open sea of the mouth of the Thames lay ahead of them.
Ferguson had a larger craft awaiting them at Southend.
Fourteen
The following afternoon, a private yacht bore northward off the coast of Lincolnshire. Its five passengers, three of whom were asleep in the cabins below, now breathed much easier than six hours earlier. All Scotland Yard and half of London’s police force were looking for them and their silent but weighty cargo, but in all the wrong places. The sewer hatch into the river had been found, as well as several well-planted clues pointing in directions the boatsman Ferguson had not been apprised of. Several known London sympathizers with his cause were already being rounded up for questioning.
On deck, one of the divers, an enthusiastic and burly youth by the name of Fogarty, was speaking to their leader.
“Where are we taking the Stone?” he said.
“Where our independence was lost,” said the parliamentarian, who thought he had masterminded the symbolic theft. “We are taking it to the spiritual heart of the Highlands. For it is there that the ancient spirit of the Scot will rise again.”
A puzzled expression met Ferguson’s gaze.
“They were just using us for their own purposes as always,” Ferguson continued. “Returning the Stone to Edinburgh in ’96 on the eve of an election was just an attempt to curry Scottish favor and win votes. You don’t think they really cared about us, do you? The Stone may have been taken to Edinburgh, but it was still theirs. Look, the moment they need it to crown their new king, back to London it comes. But now we possess it on our terms, not theirs. It doesn’t belong in Edinburgh at the whim of the English parliament. It is the property of all true Scots, and it belongs in the Highlands. Our destination is Glencoe,” concluded Ferguson. “Study your history, man.”
“You mean we’re not—”
Behind them the only woman of the select coterie approached. Hearing fragments of their conversation, she quickly caught young Fogarty’s eye. He saw the expression, perceived her meaning, and stopped abruptly. He asked no more questions.
“Our battle for independence climaxed at Glencoe,” she said as if in answer, but actually to divert his intended meaning. She slipped her hand through Ferguson’s arm as she spoke. “Glencoe’s treachery must be avenged. We have taken the first step tonight.”
“Precisely why it is there that our new quest must begin,” added Ferguson.
Fogarty nodded as if considering their words, then turned and walked away. He realized he had been careless and almost said too much.
The two watched him go. When they were alone, the woman spoke.
“You did it,” she said softly, smiling up at the Scot.
“I could not have done it without you, Fiona darling,” said Ferguson. “Though I suppose we must admit that Malloy, Fogarty, Kerr, and Cruim all did their parts as well.”
“We did it together,” she rejoined. “Now it is up to your colleagues in the Commons. And you must hasten back to join them.”
“I do not like leaving you in Grimsby. I want no danger to come to you in case Scotland Yard does manage to pick up the trail.”
“We will be fine. We will put in as weather requires and will be around the coast and safe within days. Malloy is a skilled sailor. But you . . . you are the most important member of the team. You must be back in London and out of suspicion.”
Ferguson took her hand. This time she did not pull away. “Just make sure you disappear if there is any danger,” he said.
She nodded.
“Then meet me at Glencoe,” he added. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “The Stone will be safe. But take care of yourself as well.”
“I shall,” he said. “We will meet at the cottage after the election.”
1. Westminster Palace is the official name for the Houses of Parliament building, and the two terms are used interchangeably.