The bullet went so close to my face that I felt the heat against my cheek. It must have missed by a fraction, firing past my head and smashing a mirror on a wall behind me. The explosion was deafening. The underground warehouse amplified the smallest sound and the bullet and the shattering glass must have been heard in the next county.
I knew then that it was hopeless. With the echo of the gunshot still pounding in my head, I heard doors opening, footsteps running, voices calling out. Nails broke free. Once again the gun was aimed at me. I didn’t move. Another dozen guns had joined it.
They had come from all directions, men that I had never seen before unless I had glimpsed them in the darkness of the dock. They were all dressed. Perhaps they slept with their clothes on. Perhaps they never slept. But now they were surrounding me. Nails rubbed his throat. There was murder in his eyes. I didn’t need to ask to know whose murder he had in mind.
“I’m sorry, Nig,” Tim whimpered. “I couldn’t . . . not the Purble Peagog.”
“Terrific, Tim,” I muttered. “Maybe they’ll use it to put your ashes in.”
It wasn’t a very nice thing to say. But I wasn’t in a very nice mood. Tim gazed into the vase and put it back on the table. The circle of men separated. Johnny Powers and his mother had appeared. They were both in bathrobes. Ma Powers had curlers in her hair. I almost wanted to laugh. But somehow I guessed that if I did it would be the last sound I’d ever make.
“So ya came after me!” Powers snarled. “Ya rotten, stinking, two-timing rat.”
“You seem to have changed your mind about me,” I muttered.
“Sure I’ve changed. I thought ya was my friend. And all the time ya was working for the cops.” Powers was quivering with anger. His face was white. But the madness was burning in his eyes. “I hate cops,” he went on. “If I had my way I’d kill ya now—both of ya. And I’d do it slow.”
“Why don’t ya?” Ma Powers demanded. She was some mother.
“Because the Fence will want to see him.” Powers glanced at Nails. “You okay?” he asked.
“Sure, Johnny.” Nails sounded far from okay. His voice seemed to have gotten trapped in the lower reaches of his throat. He coughed. “I found ’em with the vase.”
“The vase?” Powers shook his head, dismissing it. “I want them tied up and locked up. The Fence will be here tomorrow. We’ll finish them then.”
Nails signaled and four men moved in on us. We didn’t even try to struggle. We were frog-marched to the far end of the gallery. It ended with a narrow corridor that led past a bank of machinery, the ventilation unit, and the electrical controls. On the other side I caught sight of an iron grille with an empty space behind it, the sort of thing you might see in an underground parking garage. We arrived at a door. Nails opened it and we were pushed into a small room.
One of the men had produced some rope. I’d always thought Nails was high-strung but that was nothing compared to what we were five minutes later. Our ankles, our knees, our wrists, our arms . . . Nails didn’t miss a muscle. We ended up sitting with our backs to the wall. And that was the way it looked like we were going to stay.
The men left and Powers came in. He looked at us with a thin smile of satisfaction. His eyes were still ugly.
“Johnny—” I began. I was going to remind him of our time together in Strangeday Hall, how we’d been good friends, how I’d saved his life. But it wouldn’t have cut any ice with him. This guy had ice for blood.
“Save ya breath, Diamond,” he cut in. “Ya’re gonna need it when the Fence gets here.”
“Who is the Fence?” I asked. It wasn’t going to do me any good now but I still wanted to know.
“Ya’ll find out soon enough.” Powers grinned unpleasantly.
“It’s quite an outfit you got here,” I said.
Powers nodded. “Right now ya’re sitting a hundred feet under the Thames. It’s right above you.”
“The Fence built this place?”
“No. Some guy called Brunel did a hundred years ago. Nobody knew about it except the Fence. There were two tunnels, ya see. This was the first one. Only it ran into problems. Something about the limestone. So he started again a bit higher up. The Fence found the old tunnel, had it adapted.” He stopped and sneered at me. “But why am I wasting my breath telling ya all this? Ya’ll hear it from the Fence tomorrow.”
He leaned down and gripped my face with an iron hand. I could feel his fingers gouging into my cheeks.
“The Fence will deal with you real good,” he whispered. Then he laughed, a high-pitched, trembling laugh. “But maybe there’ll be something left for me. I’m gonna make ya wish ya’d never heard of me, Diamond. After I’ve finished with ya, ya’ll wish ya’d never been born.”
He turned on his heels and strode out of the room. The door banged shut and I heard a key being turned and two bolts being drawn across. Then there was silence.
We were tied up, locked in, and on our own. But there was one thing nobody had noticed: my backpack had been torn off my shoulders and flung into the corner. Nobody had opened it.
And the bomb was still inside.
UNDERWATER
The last time I’d been tied up in a room, it had been with a magician’s assistant named Lauren Bacardi. We’d spent a bit of time together and she’d shown me one or two tricks of the trade. I’m not saying I was any Houdini. But I had learned something. For example, when Nails and the others were tying me up this time around, I’d remembered to keep all my muscles flexed. Now that they’d gone, I relaxed them. It didn’t do much good. But it gave me a little play.
There was also something else. I was more or less dry after my dip in the Thames, but it had left me with a sheen of oil or grease. Like I said, the water was dirty. Now I was grateful for it. My skin was still covered with a slippery coating that made it easier to slide underneath the ropes. Easier but not that easy. It was going to take time.
Tim hadn’t said anything for a while. That suited me. I still blamed him for getting us into this mess, him and his sneezing and his precious vase. But looking at him, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He looked about as happy as a turkey on Christmas Eve.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll soon be out of here.” I tugged and felt one of the cords slide over my wrist. Now all I had to do was get it over my hand without dislocating my thumb.
“How?” Tim sighed. He had been watching me struggle. “Eben if we weren’t died up, there’s still the door. Logged add boated. And thed there’s a whole arby of grooks waiting for us on the other side. All arbed. It’s useless. It’s hobeless. It’s the end.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” I said. “Always the optimist . . .”
Even so, I had to admit that it looked as if he was right. Fifteen minutes of fighting with the ropes and the only thing that was doing any running in that room was Tim’s nose.
But I struggled on. There was nothing else to do. Tim dozed off, huddled up against the wall. Time passed. I didn’t know how much time. There was no clock, no window, just a single bulb burning through the night. Maybe it was an hour. Maybe it was more. But just as I was about to give up, my left hand came free. The skin was torn and I had more bruises than a peach in an all-night grocery store. But my fingers moved. I was on my way out.
After that things went more quickly. I freed my legs next and finally my right arm. When I stood up, I felt like I’d just come out of the spin-dryer. But I’d done it. I’d actually done it. That just left the locked and bolted door and the army of crooks.
For the first time I looked around the room. It was long and narrow, about the same size as my cell at Strangeday Hall. There was a second door at the far end, which I’d taken for a closet. But opening it now, I found it led into a small corridor running a few yards at right angles to the room itself. It must have been a storage area or something. It stopped with another solid wall. There was no way out from there. But it gave me an idea. I knew what I had to do.
I woke Tim up and began to untie him. As I worked, I told him what I had in mind.
“Are you oud ob your mide?” he asked. His cold had gotten much worse. “Forged id! Just die be up agaid. I’ll waid for the Fedze.”
