With characteristic energy, Lara powered into her journey, standing on the pedals for most of the way, weaving in and out of the backed-up traffic, and sprinting every clear stretch she found.
Candle Lane was in the city of London, right in the heart. The backstreets were a maze of turns and corners, part of the oldest surviving, unplanned parts of the capital.
Candle Lane itself was an old Underground station that hadn’t been operational since the late fifties. The street was narrow and closed to traffic. The buildings on either side were derelict and boarded up, awaiting redevelopment. Lara cycled in past the hazard barrier, dismounting as she came to a halt, and left the bike leaning beside one of the six yellow skips that half-blocked the street.
There were high fences around the site, which enclosed one of the older buildings. Lara noted site equipment under green tarps and stacks of duckboards. On the fences were big notices announcing and explaining the Crossrail project and describing the redevelopment that was going to take place aboveground. There were also a number of notices that read “keep out” and “authorised personnel only.”
Crossrail was a big deal, a massive engineering project that rivalled the Channel Tunnel. A major rail link was being put in to run under the city laterally, finally linking rail access between the north and south edges of the city.
The project was huge, and it was going to take years and billions of pounds. It wasn’t an extension of the Underground rail network; it was a massive tunnel to take fast, aboveground trains. Immense boring and digging machines were chewing a path through the core of the old city, hundreds of feet below street level.
It was impossible to dig through the cellars of a city like London without finding things. London stood on many, many previous Londons, an archaeological layer cake. Because of the potential disruption and the listed nature of so many buildings, archaeologists seldom got to take a look at what lay beneath.
But like the Channel Tunnel project before it, the Crossrail link had been commissioned to allow for the finds made along the way. Every hundred metres or so, something new was uncovered, and work was stopped to allow fast-moving teams of professional archaeologists to explore, remove, and preserve the data. So far, the work had uncovered Tudor foundations, Georgian basements, Norman wall lines, and Roman floors. Vital surgery was being performed on the city, and historians were being allowed to make the most of the incision.
Candle Lane was in the path of the proposed tunnel, and initial work there had revealed Tudor and Roman remains. Carter had told Lara that the government had given the London Archaeological Institute a ten-week window to recover what they could before the giant borer machines went through. In the case of really significant discoveries, the precise route of the tunnel might even be altered.
Lara crossed the lane to the site entrance. The cage door in the wire fence was padlocked shut. There were no lights on in the shells of the buildings that straddled the dig, despite the skeins of heavy power cables that ran out of the site entrance to the large generator trailer parked close by on the lane’s south side. The generator was locked up and silent.
Lara peered through the chain-link. She called out a hello. Time was of the essence. Why had everybody taken a day off?
A laminated notice hung on the cage gate, flapping in the breeze on its cable tie. She pinned it flat and read it. “Candle Lane site. Crossrail regrets the site is currently closed. No admittance.”
Lara frowned.
Between this and the lack of response from Bell, she knew something was wrong. She decided to take a look. The chain-link fence would be easy to get over, especially if she scaled it via one of the rubble-laden skips.
“Can I help you?” asked the security guard.
Lara wasn’t sure where he’d come from. He was wearing the uniform shirt and trousers typical of a private security company, but there were no tags or logos on it. He was also a fairly young, fit, bulky man. He looked toned. In her experience, private security firms hired ex-military or ex-police, middle-aged and a little less fit than they had once been.
This man didn’t look “ex” anything.
“I’m supposed to be on-site,” she said. She was glad he hadn’t caught her halfway up the skip.
“Site’s closed,” he replied, eyeing her. No “luv,” no “miss,” no “ma’am.” All the condescending over-familiarities that she usually found so abrasive were missing, and the lack of them seemed sinister. The guard was terse and surly, like the rest of London.
“No, I’m supposed to be here,” Lara said gently. “I was invited.”
“Site’s closed,” he repeated, “as you can see.”
“Can I speak to the project leader?” asked Lara.
“No one here.”
“Then Carter Bell? He’s working here and—”
“No one here,” said the guard.
“I see that,” Lara replied. “How do I contact them? Can I reach them through the Institute?”
The man shrugged, not as if he didn’t know, but that he didn’t care to answer.
“Is there a number I can call?”
“No,” the guard replied.
“Okay,” Lara said. She turned to walk back to her bike.
“Who do you work for?” she asked, turning back for a moment.
He was standing, watching her, waiting for her to leave.
“Security,” he said.
“Right. Which company?”
“Security,” he repeated.
“Thanks,” Lara said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
He knew he hadn’t, but he didn’t rise to her obvious sarcasm. His expression didn’t change. Lara had seen a stare like that a few times. Not ex-military. Military.
She got on her Boris Bike and rode out of the lane into the unfriendly city.
CHAPTER TWO:
HANOVER CARE
London
Parking herself in a coffee shop on St. Martin’s Lane, Lara did some searching on her smartphone. The London Archaeological Institute’s website had a link to Crossrail dig projects that fell under the L.A.I.’s purview, and halfway down that list, she found Candle Lane. The project head was listed as Annie Hawkes. Lara hadn’t seen Annie Hawkes for years, but she knew her and respected her work. She was old-school and methodical, and an excellent excavator.
Lara called the Institute and asked to speak to Hawkes. Not possible, she was told. Ms. Hawkes is on leave.
“Since when?” asked Lara.
“Since last week, I think.”
“When will she be back?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“Can I speak to anybody involved with the Candle Lane project?” Lara asked.
“I’m sorry, no. That site’s been suspended.”
Lara tried calling a few acquaintances that she knew were friends of Annie Hawkes. None of them had seen her in a while. She tried directory enquiries for a home number, but Annie Hawkes was unlisted.
Lara ordered a second flat white and started to run Annie’s name through every search engine she could think of, using a few filter tricks she’d learned over the years. She ignored any obvious mismatches and discounted any listings that clearly weren’t the right Annie Hawkes.
Frustrated, Lara launched a search app that a friend in the NSA had told her about and went for a dip in the Deep Web.
The Deep Web was a troubling, uncharted place: the vast, unseen, murky realms of the web, far away from the well-lit commercialised surface waters where most people surfed. This was a clandestine world, secret and encrypted; home of government agencies, illegal commerce, and grimly obscure special interests.
Anne Hawkes was listed on the patient register of a place called Hanover Care, a private hospital in North London.
Lara drove to North London that evening. The traffic was lighter, and she figured
that if the hospital had visiting hours at all, they would be in the early evening.
It was still light when she parked her roadster on a leafy square. The long summer evening was quiet and peaceful. Lara walked along a terrace of grand Edwardian houses and found Hanover Care, a large Victorian villa with modern annexes. It looked expensive and exclusive.
There was no access for visitors.
Lara strolled around the perimeter, passing strong modern fences that edged the grounds, and found a service entrance. Two delivery vans were parked on the chequered waiting area: a food-service truck and a lorry that bore the logo of an industrial laundry service.
Two women in overalls were unloading ready-to-microwave food packs from the truck and transferring them to trolleys. The back of the laundry lorry was open, the loading hoist lowered. Three high-sided carts of fresh bedding sat waiting to be wheeled into the service wing. Lara walked up alongside the lorry, keeping it between her and the two chattering women unpacking the food. She reached into the laundry carts and rummaged in each one until she found a stack of white coats. She pulled one out, checked the label for size, and stripped it out of its plastic wrapper.
Lara put it on. Apart from the pressing creases, it looked okay. She buttoned it up and strode confidently towards the entrance. The women looked over at her. She smiled at them as though she knew them. They smiled back and went back to their task.
Act like you’re supposed to be here, Lara told herself. Works every time. She walked through the loading bay and turned into a corridor, passing hurrying orderlies and workers pushing trolleys. A look at a glossy wallboard told her the layout of the various departments, and that Hanover Care was a specialist psychiatric facility.
Lara helped herself to a clipboard from a wall rack—a prop to make her disguise more convincing—and then headed to the area’s reception desk.
“Hawkes,” she said to the staff nurse on the desk. The woman looked at her.
“Annie Hawkes,” said Lara. “Her charts are supposed to be here for me.”
“Oh, sorry,” said the nurse. She checked her screen. “No, not here. Sorry. She’s in 307, right?”
“I thought it was 308,” said Lara.
“No, it says 307 here,” said the nurse. “Her forms will be up on two, at the night station.”
“Thanks.” Lara smiled and gave the nurse a “what are you going to do?” shrug that got a friendly smile back.
Lara went upstairs. She used the stairs, not the lifts. Even thirty seconds in a closed lift with someone was enough time for curiosity to take root.
The second floor was quiet. Lara could hear a TV playing nearby, distant beeps from monitor systems, and the occasional chime of the elevator bank. An orderly passed by wheeling a warming trolley of meal trays. Lara looked at room numbers.
Room 307.
The door was closed. Lara tried the handle and went straight in when she realised it was unlocked.
The room was plain, almost stark, but not crude. There was a bathroom cubicle with a toilet and shower, a modern hospital bed, a bedside cabinet, and a rolling bed table. No pictures, no TV, no flowers in the plastic vase. An orthopaedic armchair was positioned in front of the single window, and a woman in a housecoat sat in it, staring out through the reinforced, unbreakable glass at the private lawns.
“I don’t want any dinner,” the woman said, without looking around.
“I haven’t brought dinner,” said Lara. She realised she’d made a mistake. This wasn’t the right Annie Hawkes. Annie Hawkes was a short but robust woman, and this lady was elderly and frail.
“And none of the drugs either,” said the woman. “I don’t want any more of the drugs.”
There was something about the tone of her voice, though.
“Annie?” Lara said.
The woman looked around at last. She seemed to have difficulty focusing on Lara. She seemed puzzled. Lara had expected Annie Hawkes to be a little older, because it had been a few years since their last encounter, but what she saw was a shock. Annie Hawkes hadn’t got old, but she was pale and very thin, as if she had been on starvation rations for a month. She had a wild, haunted look, and her fingers were picking nervously at the arms of her chair.
The vitality and genial enthusiasm Lara remembered had long gone.
“Who are you?” asked Annie.
“It’s me. Lara Croft.”
“Are you new? I don’t want the meds. Do you understand? I don’t want the meds. I told the other doctor that.”
“I’m not a doctor,” said Lara. “Annie, do you remember me? My name is Lara Croft.”
Annie frowned and said the name to herself a couple of times. Then she looked back at Lara.
“Lara Croft?” she said. “Oh, God. They didn’t get you too, did they?”
“You remember me?”
“Of course I do. I’m not mad. It’s been ages. How long has it been?”
Lara moved closer and crouched down, facing Annie.
“Six years, at least,” she said.
Annie looked frightened.
“I’ve been here six years?” she whispered.
“No,” said Lara. Clearly, whatever meds the hospital had put her on were making Annie’s mind wander. “It’s been about six years since I last saw you. I think you’ve been in here for a week or so.”
“Seems like longer.” Annie sighed. She picked at the chair arms. She’d plucked the fabric away to the foam. “When did they get you?”
“They didn’t get me,” said Lara, calmly. “I came here to see you.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Annie, who’s ‘they’?”
Annie frowned again, as though it was hard to think, or as if the thoughts were painful.
“They closed the site down,” she said. “They just walked in and closed it down. I suppose they had to, after what happened, but it was so abrupt. I argued, of course, but they said I didn’t get to decide.”
“Carter Bell asked me to come,” said Lara.
“Carter? That dear chap. Is he here?”
“I don’t think so. Do you know where he is?”
Annie shook her head.
“He asked me to come and help at the dig,” said Lara. “It sounded important.”
“Important!” Annie giggled. There was a worrying darkness to the laugh.
“Can you talk to me about Candle Lane, Annie?”
Annie looked out of the window and fell silent for a moment.
“Annie?”
“Wonderful Roman layers,” she said. “Wonderful. A whole mosaic floor, hypocaust. The floor needs preserving. The tesserae are very fragile. We need to get the chaps on that.”
“It was a Roman find, Annie?” asked Lara.
“Well, under the Blitz stuff. So much rubble infill. Wartime. And the plane.”
“The plane?”
“Dornier, I think. German bomber. Came down in an air raid and had sunk when the rubble subsided. Right through the Tudor stuff. So much to work through. So much to process. Of course, I asked for a delay. An extension. It’s an important site.”
She fell silent.
“Annie? What else happened?”
Annie looked at her.
“I know you. Lara. Lara Croft.”
“That’s right, Annie. Annie, what else happened at Candle Lane?”
Annie shivered. Her fingers picked at the chair arms.
“We dug up the ghosts,” she said. “We shouldn’t have. We should have respected their peace. But we dug them up.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lara.
“We should have let them sleep.”
Annie looked out of the window again, as though she was expecting to see something or someone out on the lawns.
“Down in the lowest level. Near the stone. I never
expected to find that. I mean, it shouldn’t have been there. Not like that. I had to look. I mean, we had to dig. It was such an incredible find.”
“What did you find, Annie?”
“The Son of the Sun. His marks, right there. The symbols. Absolutely incredible. But we shouldn’t have touched it. They didn’t like it.”
“Who didn’t?”
“The ghosts. They warned us off, but we kept going. Blindly! We were such fools. We opened up the whole shrine. Ritual site. So marvellously preserved. The stone, the table, and the blade. But the ghosts came out and chased us away.”
“Annie, what were the ghosts?” Lara asked.
“What are you doing in here?”
Lara looked up. The door had opened, and a man was glaring at her. He was wearing green scrubs.
“What are you doing in here?” he repeated.
Lara stood up.
“I was just seeing to Ms. Hawkes’s meds,” she said.
“I don’t know you,” said the man, stepping forwards.
“Meds,” Lara said again.
“I don’t want any meds,” said Annie.
“She’s not due any until ten,” said the man. He was studying Lara hard. “Who are you?”
“Look,” said Lara, “I’ll go and get the charts. We can sort this out.”
She started to walk towards the door. He blocked her.
“Where’s your tag?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your ID tag? Show me some ID.”
“Calm down,” said Lara. “You’re getting worked up over nothing. I’ll get the charts and—”
“Show me some ID right now,” said the orderly.
Lara tried to walk past him. He grabbed her arm.
“Let go,” said Lara.
“ID now,” the man demanded. His grip tightened.
“Get your hand off me now,” said Lara. She looked him straight in the eyes. “Right now.”
“Not until you show me some ID,” the man spat.
Lara sighed. She reached for his wrist. He tensed and blocked her. The shift in his weight allowed her to loop her arm under his and apply enough force to turn him away. A simple, swift, non-violent technique. His grip on her broke, and he found himself taking a couple of unexpected steps towards the bathroom cubicle.