Another kick and the panel jarred loose enough from its jamb for her to curl her fingers inside and yank it outward. Two solid tugs and the mutilated lock gave way, the door bursting open.

She immediately noticed the odor. Carbon. Burnt. Just like from Henry VIII’s grave at Windsor. Spent percussion explosives.

Something had happened.

A passage stretched before her, everything in solid darkness. The only light was what leaked in from the river tunnel, which was barely illuminated by overhead grates.

She heard a crash.

A heavy mass slamming downward.

No choice on what to do.

“Ian? Gary? Malone?”

* * *

Malone heard Kathleen Richards.

She’d made it to them.

Elation and panic mingled within him.

More stone cascading downward drowned out Richards’ pleas. Then something smashed to pieces only a few feet away. The carnage was spreading and a toxic cloud of dust was enveloping them.

Breathing was difficult.

They had to go.

“We’re in here,” he called out. “Keep talking.”

* * *

Ian heard Richards, too, her voice far off, probably in the tunnel that led from the bridge.

“She’s back from where we came,” he said to Malone through the blackness.

More stone cracked to rubble only a few feet away.

“Everyone up,” Malone said. “Hold hands.”

He felt Gary’s grip in his.

“We’re in a chamber,” Malone called out. “Beyond the tunnel where you are.”

“I’ll count out,” Richards said. “Follow the voice.”

* * *

Gary held his father’s and Ian’s hands.

The chamber was collapsing, and the one in which Antrim had died was probably already gone. The air was stifling and all three of them struggled against fits of coughing, but it was next to impossible not to inhale dust.

His dad led the way and they found the steps.

Stone pounded the floor nearby and his father yanked him up the risers. He held on tight and guided Ian up with him.

He could hear a woman counting from a hundred.

Backward.

* * *

Malone focused on Richards’ voice, climbing the steps. His right hand groped the air ahead, looking for the doorway he recalled seeing, listening to the numbers.

“87. 86. 85.”

He moved right.

The voice grew fainter.

Back to the left. More rock crumbled to dust behind them as centuries-old engineering succumbed to gravity.

“83. 82. 81. 80.”

His hand found the doorway and he led them out.

The air was better here, breathing easier.

And nothing was falling.

“We’re out,” he called to the darkness.

“I’m here,” Richards said.

Directly ahead.

Not far.

He kept moving, each step cautious.

“There’s nothing out here,” Gary said. “It’s an empty room.”

Good to know.

“Keep talking,” he said to Richards.

She started counting again. He kept edging the boys toward the voice, picking through the dark, his right hand finding familiarity at a wall.

His fingers, curved into a claw, led the way.

The chamber they’d just fled seemed to be imploding, the crashes escalating to a crescendo.

His hand found air.

And Richards.

She grabbed hold and drew him into another tunnel, leading them away. Around two bends and he spotted a faint glow. Bluish. Like the pale wash of moonlight.

They stepped through an exit.

He noticed the door, its lock shot through. They stood on a bridge above another portion of the river tunnel he’d ventured through earlier. The pull of the tides had thrown up a wall of water, flooding the passage, raising the Fleet another eight to ten feet. Luckily, the bridge spanned above it with three feet to spare.

He checked on Gary and Ian.

Both boys were fine.

He faced Richards. “Thanks. We needed that.”

He noticed something lying on the bridge behind her.

Robert Cecil’s journal.

Then he saw the gun.

And knew.

He lifted the weapon and snapped out the magazine.

Empty.

“You found Mathews?”

She nodded.

“The older man knew Antrim had those explosives,” Gary said. “He told him he might have use for them.”

Malone understood. Mathews had clearly wanted Antrim to kill him. He was probably hoping that Antrim would also kill himself in the process. If not, then surely SIS agents would have taken him out. Antrim was either too foolish or too anxious to realize he could not win.

“Mathews also knew Gary and Ian were in there,” Richards said.

“He saw us,” Ian said. “When he left.”

He knew the drill. No witnesses.

The son of a bitch.

He stepped close, still holding the gun, and caught the truth in Kathleen Richards’ eyes. She’d killed the head of SIS.

Better not to say a word.

Same rule.

No witnesses.

But he wanted her to know something.

So he stared back and sent her a message.

Good job.

Sixty-three

HATFIELD HOUSE

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 23

9:45 AM