disappearing from view.
Then Beelzebub turned to Michael. “See how easy that was?”
“Don’t think it’s over,” Michael told him.
“Oh, I certainly hope not.”
And as Michael struggled to free himself, Beelzebub’s window rolled up and the limousine pulled away.
43
St. Giles’ Cripplegate was one of the few medieval churches in all of London. It sat on soil that was believed to have held holy structures as far back as a thousand years. In the middle of the Barbican, London’s now-thriving cultural arts center, it was the only building left standing-although damaged considerably-when the area was destroyed by the blitz during World War II.
It had also managed to survive the Great Fire of 1666, and Batty didn’t think these were insignificant facts.
The church was an imposing structure, constructed of Kentish ragstone in the fourteenth century in the name of the hermit Giles, the patron saint of cripples-although, ironically, the name Cripplegate had nothing at all to do with this. It featured a high bell tower, and the churchyard was bordered on one side by a surviving piece of the Roman wall, which had been erected several centuries earlier to protect the port town of Londinium from interlopers.
Stepping onto its grounds was like stepping through the looking glass into another time and place.
Batty and Callahan had arrived in London early, and were forced to wait until well past nightfall to approach the church grounds. The streets here seemed only slightly less crazy than those in Chiang Mai, and as the unruliness continued, the police did their best to keep it contained.
They had spent the day holed up in a cheap hotel nearby, Batty fidgeting like a teenager, unable to sleep or eat, just anxious to do what needed to be done. He tried to bide his time by reading sections of the Milton manuscript and
Was anyone pure?
Part of what had fueled him, what had taken hold of him in Sao Paulo in the first place, was his desire to know who had ripped Rebecca out of his life. And when he found out, he had been filled with a rage and anger he hadn’t felt since the day she died.
Yet when he’d put that bullet in Belial’s back, when he saw what McNab had done with his sniper’s bullets, Batty had felt nothing more than relief. Relief that Belial had been stopped-if only temporarily-from destroying more lives.
So did that make his motives pure?
No way to tell, unfortunately.
And now, deep into the night, he and Callahan made their way across the churchyard to the main entrance. It was locked, as expected, and if there was any kind of security guard, he was nowhere to be found, undoubtedly spooked by the pandemonium in the streets these last couple days.
Or maybe joining in.
Callahan checked for alarms and found none, then got through the lock with little effort. Fortunately, she didn’t use her foot this time.
They carried flashlights to guide them. Batty had been here before, in his quest to know everything Milton, and noted that it hadn’t really changed. Even in limited light, the church was impressive, sporting polished wooden pews and lined on either side with carved stone columns and archways.
To their right, beyond the archways, stood a bronze statue of John Milton.
Callahan put her flashlight beam on it. “This is a good sign.”
“Here’s an even better one,” Batty said, then shone his light on a nearby wall that held a bust of Milton atop a plaque that read:
Author of Paradise Lost
Born Dec 1608
Died Nov 1674
His father John Milton
died 1646
They were both interred in this church
“The question,” Callahan said, “is where?”
“That part could be tricky.”
She knitted her brow. “How so?”
“It’s been a few centuries since he was buried,” Batty said. “And the place has been rebuilt and refurbished a few times since then, so finding the exact location could be problematic.” He paused. “Then there’s the issue of grave robbers.”
“What issue?”
“It’s said that during one of those rebuilds-about a hundred years after he died-Milton’s coffin was broken into and he was stripped of his teeth and hair. The coffin was supposed to have been moved after that.”
The more Batty thought about this, however, the more he had to wonder if it was just a cover story. What if it had been the guardians who had moved him, at Saint Michael’s bidding? To protect the pages. The corpse with the missing hair and teeth may not have been Milton at all.
“So, in other words,” Callahan said, “we have no idea where the hell we’re going.”
“Then might I suggest you turn around and leave,” a voice told them.
They both froze as a figure stepped out from the shadows beyond one of the archways. He was tall and slender, in his mid-fifties, and had a shotgun resting on his forearm, casually pointing it in their direction. The security guard, no doubt. Although he wasn’t wearing a uniform.
He was British, of course. “Picking locks, carrying torches…looks to me as if you two are up to no good.”
“Easy,” Callahan said, her eyes on the shotgun.
“I don’t shoot, luv, unless someone provokes me. And you’re not going to provoke me, are you?”
“Listen to me,” Batty said. “I can’t explain any of this without it sounding completely crazy, but we need to see John Milton’s remains.”
“I was getting that impression, the way you two were talking. The question is why? I’ve seen some Milton crazies in my time, but not all that many of them have been anxious to get a look at a few rotting old bones.”
“Like I said …” Batty spread his hands.
The guard pointed to Callahan. “You. Do you have some form of identification on you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to know who I’m about to shoot, should it become necessary.” He turned a palm up and waggled his fingers at her. “Let me see.”
Callahan pulled her State Department ID out of her pocket and tossed it to him. He opened it, gave it a glance, then suddenly relaxed, tossing it back to her.
“It’s good to meet you, Agent Callahan.” Then he set the shotgun aside and held out a hand to shake. “My name is Grant. Jim Grant. I was told to expect you.”
Batty and Callahan exchanged looks, then Callahan said, “You’re with Section?”
“I presume that’s who you work for, but no, I answer to a higher authority.” He reached into his collar and brought out a Saint Christopher medal. “I’m the caretaker here, but I’m also here to protect what needs to be protected.”
