pipes – beautiful copper, a rag-and-bone man’s dream. But Hydt’s interest in demolition, of course, went beyond the financial. He now studied the ancient building in a state of tense rapture, as a hunter stares at an unsuspecting animal moments before he fires the fatal shot.
He couldn’t help but think of the hospital’s former occupants too – the dead and dying.
Hydt had snapped dozens of pictures of the grand old lady as he’d strolled through the rotting halls, the mouldy rooms – particularly the mortuary and autopsy areas – collecting images of decay and decline. His photographic archives included shots of old buildings as well as bodies. He had quite a number, some rather artistic, of places like Northumberland Terrace, Palmers Green on the North Circular Road, the now-vanished Pura oil works on Bow Creek in Canning Town and the Gothic Royal Arsenal and Royal Laboratory in Woolwich. His photos of Lovell’s Wharf in Greenwich, a testament to what aggressive neglect could achieve, never failed to move him.
On his mobile, Niall Dunne was giving instructions to the driver of the lorry that had just left, explaining how best to hide the device. They were quite precise details, in accord with his nature and that of the horrific weapon.
Although the Irishman made him uneasy, Hydt was grateful their paths had intersected. He could not have proceeded as quickly, or as safely, on Gehenna without him. Hydt had come to refer to him as ‘the man who thinks of everything’ and indeed he was. So, Severan Hydt was happy to put up with the eerie silences, the cold stares, the awkward arrangement of robotic steel that was Niall Dunne. The two men made an efficient partnership, if an ironic one: an engineer whose nature was to build, a rag-and-bone man whose passion was destruction.
What a curious package we humans are. Predictable only in death. Faithful only then too, Hydt reflected and then discarded that thought.
Just after Dunne disconnected, there was a knock on the door. It opened. Eric Janssen, a Green Way security man, who’d driven them up to March, stood in the doorway, his face troubled.
‘Mr Hydt, Mr Dunne, someone’s gone into the building.’
‘What?’ Hydt barked, turning his huge equine head the man’s way.
‘He went in through the tunnel.’
Dunne rattled off a number of questions. Was he alone? Had there been any transmissions that Janssen had monitored? Was his car nearby? Had there been any unusual traffic in the area? Was the man armed?
The answers suggested that he was operating by himself and wasn’t with Scotland Yard or the Security Service.
‘Did you get a picture or a good look at him?’ Dunne asked.
‘No, sir.’
Hydt clicked two long nails together. ‘The man with the Serbs? From last night?’ he asked Dunne. ‘The private operator?’
‘Not impossible, but I don’t know how he could have traced us here.’ Dunne gazed out of the caravan’s dirt-spattered window as if he wasn’t seeing the building. Hydt knew the Irishman was drafting a blueprint in his mind. Or perhaps examining one he’d already prepared in case of such a contingency. For a long moment he was motionless. Finally, drawing his gun, Dunne stepped out of the caravan, gesturing to Janssen to follow.
13
The smells of mould, rot, chemicals, oil and petrol were overwhelming. Bond struggled not to cough and blinked tears from his stinging eyes. Could he detect smoke too?
The hospital’s basement here was windowless. Only faint illumination filtered in from where he’d entered the tunnel. Bond splayed light from his torch around him. He was beside a railway turntable, designed to rotate small locomotives after they’d carted in supplies or patients.
His Walther in hand, Bond searched the area, listening for voices, footsteps, the click of a weapon chambering bullets or going off safety. But the place was deserted.
He’d entered through the tunnel at the south end. As he moved farther north and away from the turntable, he came to a sign that prompted a brief laugh:
It consisted of three large windowless rooms that had clearly been occupied recently; the floors were dust-free and new cheap work benches were arranged throughout. One of these rooms seemed to be the source of the smoke. Bond saw electricity cables secured to the wall and floor with duct tape, presumably providing power for lights and whatever work had been going on. Perhaps an electrical short had produced the fumes.
He left the mortuary and came to a large open space, with a double door, to the right, east, opening to the parade ground. Light filtered through the crack between the panels – a possible escape route, he noted, and he memorised its location and the placement of columns that might provide cover in the event he had to make his way to it under fire.
Ancient steel tables, stained brown and black, were bolted to the floor, each with its own drain. For post-mortems, of course.
Bond continued to the north end of the building, which ended in a series of smaller rooms with barred windows. A sign here suggested why:
He tried the doors leading up to the ground floor, found them locked and returned to the three rooms next to the turntable. A systematic search finally revealed the source of the smoke. On the floor in the corner of one room there was an improvised hearth. He spotted large curls of ash, on which he could discern writing. The flakes were delicate; he tried to pick one up but it dissolved between his fingers.
Careful, he told himself.
He walked over to one of the wires running up the wall. He pulled off several pieces of the silver duct tape securing the cord and sliced them into six-inch lengths with his knife. He then carefully pressed them on to the grey and black ash curls, slipped them into his pocket and continued his search. In a second room something silvery caught his eye. He hurried to the corner and found tiny splinters of metal littering the floor. He picked them up with another piece of tape, which he also pocketed.
Then Bond froze. The building had begun to vibrate. A moment later the shaking increased considerably. He heard a diesel engine rattling, not far away. That explained why the demolition site had been deserted; the workers must have been at lunch and now they’d returned. He couldn’t get to the ground or higher floors without going outside, where he’d surely be spotted. It was time to leave.
He stepped back into the turntable room to leave through the tunnel.
And was saved from a broken skull by a matter of a few decibels.
He didn’t see the attacker or hear his breathing or the hiss of whatever he swung, but Bond sensed a faint muting of the diesel’s rattle, as the man’s clothing absorbed the sound.
Instinctively, he leapt back and the metal pipe missed him by inches.
Bond grabbed it firmly in his left hand and his attacker stumbled, off balance, too surprised to release his weapon. The young blond man wore a cheap dark suit and white shirt, a security man’s uniform, Bond assessed. He had no tie; he’d probably removed it in anticipation of the assault. His eyes wide in dismay, he staggered again and nearly fell but righted himself fast and clumsily launched himself into Bond. Together they crashed to the filthy floor of the circular room. He was not, Bond noted, the Irishman.
Bond jumped up and stepped forward, clenching his hands into fists, but it was a feint – he intended to get the muscular fellow to step back and avoid a blow, which he accommodatingly did, giving Bond the chance to draw his weapon. He didn’t, however, fire; he needed the man alive.
Covered by Bond’s.40-calibre pistol, he froze, although his hand went inside his
