“I hope that concludes the excitement for the day,” Perlmutter said as the Rolls got moving again. “And I hope it doesn’t make us late for lunch.”
“I’m sure the National Archives building has a cafeteria,” Summer said. “We can grab a bite after we meet with Dr. Trehorne.”
“Don’t trifle with me, young lady. There’s a Michelin-rated Korean restaurant near the Archives that I insist we sample.”
She gave him a stern look. “Business before pleasure.”
It was less than a fifteen-minute drive to the National Archives in the west London borough of Richmond upon Thames, where a thousand years of British historical documents were housed. Perlmutter led Dirk and Summer up a flight of steps to the entrance of the modern glass structure and into its atrium. While Dirk eyed an attractive woman in a leather jacket who was studying the floor plan, Perlmutter asked at the front desk about Trehorne.
The receptionist perked up at the mention of his name. “I’m sure Dr. Trehorne is at his usual table in the Document Reading Room. I’ll have someone take you there.”
A research assistant escorted them through a security checkpoint and into the expansive room. “He’s in the far back.” She pointed to a distant corner.
The trio made their way past dozens of students and researchers at small wooden desks, quietly examining ancient documents. Threading their way to the corner, they found Trehorne wedged behind a long table sided by sliding bookshelves. Two thick document files and some loose pages were stacked on the table, but his focus was on a slim blue binder opened before him.
He looked over the top of his reading glasses and smiled. “Good morning, all. You found me without trouble, I hope?”
“That was the least of our difficulties this morning,” Perlmutter said. “You have quite a reputation in these parts.”
“I apologize for troubling you with a visit, but I thought you would like to see the original pages of the documents I found. They are quite fascinating.”
“We’re glad you called,” Summer said. “What is it that you found?”
“I had the papers of Sir Leigh Hunt pulled for the period of 1916 to 1917.” He patted the binder. “It was in his last set of documents that I found—”
His words were cut off by a loud siren.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “That sounds like the fire alarm.”
As people began evacuating the reading room, a woman approached the table. Dirk was surprised to see it was the dark-haired beauty he had noticed in the lobby. She ignored him and addressed Trehorne.
“I’m afraid you must evacuate the building,” Martina said in an authoritative voice. “I must collect the documents you have checked out.”
“Edith in Foreign Service Records provided me these documents,” Trehorne said.
“I’ll need to return them.” Martina slid past Perlmutter to the side of the table.
“This is most unusual,” Trehorne said, setting down the blue binder.
Martina leaned across the table and collected the two thick folders, then the binder. Dirk watched as her leather jacket flapped open, revealing a small automatic pistol tucked into a shoulder holster. He realized that unlike the other library assistants, she wasn’t wearing a name badge.
Standing between Summer and Perlmutter, he elbowed his sister and motioned at a door along the back wall. He discreetly moved his foot to the side and slipped it around Perlmutter’s ankle.
“Forgive me, Julien,” he said, then shoved him toward the woman.
The big man stumbled and fell to the side, colliding hard with the Russian. The documents in her hands went flying across the table as she was knocked to the floor.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Perlmutter said. Catching himself on a chair back, he leaned over and pulled Martina to her feet.
“Clumsy fool!” She jerked away from his helpful hands.
The nearby door clicked closed, and she wheeled around. In an instant, her trained eyes registered that Dirk, Summer, and the blue binder were gone. Boxed in by Perlmutter and Trehorne, she dove across the table, rolled onto her feet on the opposite side, and drew her gun. She rushed to the door, flung it open, and charged in.
The door opened onto a stairwell landing. She heard the clatter of footfalls and looked over the rail, catching a glimpse of Dirk and Summer on the floor above. She raised her gun and fired a single shot, which reverberated like a cannon in the stairwell. An instant later, a door slammed.
Martina hesitated, then pulled a two-way radio from her pocket. “The two younger ones have entered the second floor, east side,” she said in Russian. “They have the documents.”
42
“Why is she shooting at us?” Summer asked as they burst onto the second floor.
Dirk pushed his sister ahead. “Let’s not stop and ask her.”
They had stepped into a small map room whose occupants had already cleared out. A doorway at the far end led to a larger map and document reading room. Dirk looked to the far room, then pushed Summer toward a side door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
They found themselves in a large, dimly lit bay. They took a second to let their eyes adjust, thankful that the alarm blaring throughout the building was muted inside. The bay contained one of the Archives’ many large book depositories. Wedged into the cavernous bay were row upon row of sliding bookshelves standing eight feet high. As they padded down a narrow opening between shelves, Summer noted the books contained Britain’s tax collection rolls. They reached the end of the shelf only to find more rows beyond.
Dirk gazed at a back wall to his left, then turned to Summer. “Stay here and keep an eye on the door—and a tight grip on that binder. I’ll run down and see if there’s another exit at that end.”
“Okay. I’ll follow if we have company.”
As Dirk ran off, Summer stepped a few feet in the opposite direction, keeping an eye down the aisles toward the door they had entered. The next row of shelves to her left ran short, ending at a wall with a large canvas cart filled with books. Curious, she scurried down the aisle and found a freight elevator just beyond. She pushed the call button, then hurried back down the row to regain her view of the entry door. It still seemed quiet.
But as she resumed her watch position, a voice called from nearby. “I believe the Archives are now closed.”
Summer nearly jumped out of her shoes as she turned and faced a familiar man with blond hair.
“I’ll take the documents,” Mansfield said in an easygoing voice.
Summer noticed he was nicely dressed in a sport coat and slacks, and held a Beretta aimed at her midsection. It took a moment for her to place his face. “Wasn’t it enough to blow up half of the Canterbury?” She intentionally spoke in a nervous, high-pitched voice.
“Not when there are still tales to tell. Your brother?” he asked, waving his gun from side to side.
“Coming on the elevator with security.” She took a half step back as she motioned over her shoulder at the freight elevator.
They stood facing each other in a narrow track between bookshelves, but Summer had eased past the end of the rack. “What is so important in the files?”
Mansfield could see she was stalling for time. He reached out his free hand. “Give me the folder. Now.”
A loud ding announced the arrival of the freight elevator. Mansfield turned and peered over Summer’s shoulder toward the opening doors. A second later, a rumbling emanated near his feet. He looked back to see Summer leaping to the side as one of the towering bookshelves toppled toward him.
Two shelves over, Dirk had his shoulder pressed to a center rack and was shoving against it like a charging rhino.
Before Mansfield could brace himself, the twin sliding shelves slammed into him. His chest caught a high shelf that jammed his ribs. He winced as a collection of dusty tax books cascaded onto him, dropping him to the fl
oor as the shelves bounced off him.
Dirk let go and sprinted toward the elevator, shouting to his sister, “Lift!”
Summer was already on the move, reaching the open elevator ahead of him. She jabbed the lowest-floor button and glanced back at the bookshelves. The two mashed shelves around Mansfield began to part. A hand emerged from the pile of books, aiming a gun in her direction. Dirk was still several paces away.
“Get down!” she said, ducking to the side of the elevator door.
Dirk took a step and leaped, sliding headfirst into the elevator. As the twin doors rattled to a close, two shots splattered into the elevator’s back wall.
“You all right?” Summer asked.
“Yes.” Dirk climbed to his feet. “Where’d he come from?”
“Either slipped in when I was checking the elevator or found another entrance. The woman must have tipped him off.” She watched the lights of the floors flash by. “I’m glad you were able to sneak back quietly.”
“I heard you speak up and figured it wasn’t a good thing.”
Summer gave her brother a concerned look. “He was the pilot on the Russian submersible.”
“What?”
“I’m certain of it. He’s from the Tavda. And he didn’t deny it.”
“Apparently, it’s more than gold they’re after.” His eyes fell to the blue binder that Summer clutched with an iron grip. “We need to find security.”
“The front entrance is our best bet. Where are we headed?”
The elevator doors opened. They had dropped into the building’s warehouse and loading dock. Packages of dry foodstuffs for the Archives’ restaurant were stacked near shrink-wrapped crates of books and calendars for the gift shop. They walked past orderly stacks of plastic containers of contemporary government records fresh from Parliament. They continued along an empty loading dock, framed by a large drop-down garage door. A nearby fire alarm, one of many clanging throughout the building, suddenly stopped.
Summer hesitated and grabbed Dirk’s arm. “Someone’s coming.”
Dirk heard it, too, someone running down a flight of stairs. He glanced away from the sound to his right, where an exit door stood beside the loading dock. At the opposite end of the bay, another door burst open. Martina came flying out, her eyes locking onto the twins.
Dirk was already on the move, dragging Summer to the exit door and flinging it open. The door led outside. They raced down a flight of steps to the base of the loading dock. They were at the rear of the Archives, whose blank walls stretched in either direction. A short delivery driveway extended from the dock to a narrow side lane. Otherwise, they were surrounded by open asphalt.
“Nothing like a distinct lack of cover,” Dirk muttered as he led Summer at a full run to the road. Just across the paved lane, a large open field rolled down to the banks of the Thames. The field was flanked by a pair of industrial buildings positioned a healthy sprint away. As the warehouse door banged open behind them, Dirk looked to the river.
Upriver from the bustle of central London, the Thames was relatively serene, a haven more for sport rowers than commercial boats. From their vantage, the river was empty except for a lone tugboat chugging downstream.
Dirk led Summer into the field, angling toward the nearest industrial building. They could see some teens near the water’s edge, along with a long, lean object resting on the bank.
“It’s too far.” Between gasps for air, Summer motioned to the building ahead.
But Dirk had an alternate plan. “This way. To the river.”
“Swim for it?”
Dirk just pointed to the riverbank.
With their head start, the downward sloping field gave them a hint of cover from Martina’s pistol. The Russian woman reached the top of the field as Dirk and Summer approached the riverbank.
As they drew near the water, Summer shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”
She stared at a four-man rowing scull beached on the rocks. Its owners, four teen boys who had stopped for a break, were upriver exploring the reeds.
“We don’t have to go far,” Dirk said.
He muscled the scull off the bank, hesitated a second for Summer to take a seat, then shoved it into the water and hopped aboard. The rail-thin scull would have capsized, but Summer was quick to steady it with a pair of oars. Dirk took to another set and they were quickly stroking toward the center of the river.
Pursuing them at a run, Martina reached the middle of the field. She pulled to a stop and raised her pistol. But the teen boys had noticed the boat thieves and raced along the riverbank, shouting at the two rowers. One took to hurling rocks and the others followed suit. With four witnesses directly in front of her, Martina lowered her pistol and slid it into her shoulder holster.
She stood for a moment, watching the scull cross the bow of the small tug, then turn along its opposite side.
“Martina!” Mansfield called from the road, where he stood watching the scene.
She hurried back across the field and reached him just as a silver Audi driven by Ivan screeched to a halt in front of them. Mansfield jumped into the front seat, and she climbed in back a second later.
As Ivan hit the gas, Mansfield turned to her with his blue eyes ablaze. “We need a boat.” His voice was calmer than his expression. “And we need it right now.”
43
The green vessel blew its horn at the rowers crossing its path and cut sharply to starboard to avoid slicing through the forty-foot rowing shell. It wasn’t a tugboat, Dirk could now see, but a stout fishing boat. Built in the fashion of a North Sea trawler, the steel-hulled vessel had been designed for endurance in all-weather climates.
After cutting across the trawler’s path, Dirk and Summer shelved their portside oars and dug in with their starboard blades. They swung the scull alongside the fishing boat until Dirk could grab a side tire fender. Summer rose and stretched for the side rail and pulled herself aboard. She quickly reached back and snared the blue binder that had been at her feet. Dirk followed her aboard, kicking the scull toward shore as he pulled himself onto the deck.
They were greeted by a black and tan dachshund that approached with its tail wagging, offering an ominous howl. Summer knelt in surrender, eliciting a lick and a melodious greeting.
The dog was followed by a tall silver-haired man who gazed at them through curious coral-sea green eyes. “Are you a boarding party?”
“No, just hitchhikers.” Summer rose to her feet. “Sorry to board without asking, but they were trying to kill us.” She pointed at the opposite riverbank.
The old man looked across the river. He ignored a silver Audi speeding down the road and focused on the four boys wearing spandex and hurling rocks and insults from the shoreline.
“Killers, eh?” He shook his head. “I guess they do look slightly hostile. I would be, too, if someone stole my boat.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Excuse me, but I need to get back to the wheel.” He turned and stepped to the pilothouse, trailed by the dachshund.
Following behind, Dirk and Summer noticed a life ring outside the wheelhouse identified the boat’s name as First Attempt.
“Is there a river police station on the Thames?” Dirk asked.
“I think the Brits have some sort of patrol station up near the London Eye. It’s along my way, so I can drop you.”
“We’d be very grateful.” Summer noticed the boat’s owner was drinking coffee from a mug inscribed with Balboa Yacht Club and the initials CC. “What’s a fellow Yank doing sailing on the Thames?”
“Mauser and I decided to see the world by boat.” He nodded toward the dachshund, now curled up on a pillow near his feet. “We’re coming down from a side trip to Oxford.” He waved a hand at the windscreen, beyond which the tall landmarks of central London could be seen in the distance. “I a
lways found that you see the worst side of a town driving past it on the highway. The great old cities seem to preserve their best face for the waterfront. We’ve enjoyed London and are off now to cross the Channel for the Seine River and Paris.”
“Did you cross the Atlantic in the First Attempt?” Dirk asked.
“Oh, yes, we sailed her across. She’s built like a battleship, and just as stable. I’ve got extra fuel tanks below that give us a range of over three thousand miles.”
“How fast can she go?” Summer gazed the shoreline for signs of the two Russians.
“With a friendly breeze and a favorable current, she’s good for nine and a half knots.” He rapped the throttle forward to its stops. “Don’t you worry, miss. I’ll have you to the police dock in about twenty minutes.”
• • •
LESS THAN TEN MINUTES LATER, Mansfield found a boat. By luck, the Chiswick Pier Marina a mile downriver had a handful of boats for hire. Martina arranged a rental by phone seconds before the Audi skidded to a stop out front.
“Keep downriver, and track them as best you can,” Mansfield told the Audi’s driver.
Ivan had a bruised cheek and a fresh cut on his hand from his collision in the old taxi but brushed off any pain and nodded at Mansfield.
Martina followed Mansfield as he jumped out of the car and hurried to a wiry man wearing coveralls and carrying a gas can.
“You here for the boat?” he asked with a friendly grin.
“Yes.”
“The fastest we have, per the lady’s request.” He pointed past a row of sailboats to a small powerboat at the end of the dock. “A Seafarer 23. She’s no cigarette boat but a fine old runner nevertheless, all fueled up and ready to go. I’ll just need your driver’s license and a credit card.”
Mansfield handed him his phony French passport with several hundred-pound banknotes protruding from the cover. “I presume this will suffice?”