The Tower Grave Read online

  “John,” Stypes spoke up. “My department focuses its full attention on the prevention of terrorist attacks. But we are not police, and we’re not military. We use and gather intelligence, then either put the evidence forward to the Met to prosecute or we disrupt the cell ourselves so they can’t operate. Over the past eighteen months, we’ve had mounting intelligence relating to a home-grown terrorist cell called the Faculty. They are a highly funded and highly protected unit; hell-bent on destroying the major UK cities and every living thing within them. They use mixed biological warfare tactics, and as far as we know they have the tools, the funds and the capabilities to pull off devastating attacks.

  “We’ve worked on them for a long time,” he continued. “We’ve tracked their every move and listened to everything they’ve said for over a year. We’ve also managed to turn a fair few of them in an attempt to infiltrate. But we have nothing. They’re impossible. There’s a small inner-circle, and there’s the periphery. We’ve been inside the periphery, John, we’ve turned some of them too. But unless you’re in the ‘Faculty’ as they call themselves, you’re kept in the dark. All the rest of them know is that there is a huge attack coming. Death toll looks to be in the thousands and perhaps even in the tens of thousands. And that’s if damage control is spot on.”

  “When will they attack?”

  “Believe it or not, it will be September twelfth this year if they have their way.”

  “September twelfth? So what can I do? If military agents haven’t sussed this in eighteen months, how are this handpicked team and I meant to crack it?”

  “The head of this cell is Lord Charles Courtridge.”

  “You’re joking? Lord Courtridge?”

  “I’m not. He funds the cell. And believe it or not, his family’s legacy goes further than what is known publically. It makes him a Lord, of course, but it also makes him one of only a handful of UK-born billionaires. Not that it is recorded as such, and hence no one knows those details of him. Either way this is his plot for sure and that’s all we know. There is nothing we can do apart from exposing his funds and his on-going tax evasion, and those tactics just simply will not be enough on this one unfortunately.”

  “Why can’t we nick him? You have evidence, right? From informants? Agents?”

  “It won’t prevent the attack.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?” John asked, feeling the pressure of the job mount already. “I don’t understand what my role is?”

  “All we can focus on is disrupting the cell. If we disrupt them enough then we can remove all of the funding, break the ‘faculty’ apart and prevent the attack. They wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for their leadership and funding so we need to take out Courtridge. As a man, he’s untouchable. His money and titles are not.”

  “David?” asked Derek. “Why don’t you help us out with the next bit?”

  “Ok. John, as said earlier, I am an archaeologist,” added David, taking his tie off nervously as he spoke. “A number of months ago, a team on one of my digs recovered a fifteenth century chest hidden deep amongst a decayed Roman structure. In that chest was a diary written by an unknown hand that describes a successful plot of treason from planning to execution. It fully documents the murder of King Edward the Fifth and his brother.”

  “The two dead boys in the Tower?”

  “That’s right, good knowledge. It describes the orchestrator of the assassination as Lord Edmund Courtridge of Exeter.”

  “Right, now there’s some sense.”

  “The Courtridge family received their titles because of this murder and their subsequent involvement in the clear up and allegations. Without their help to Henry Tudor a year or so later, they wouldn’t be who they are today.”

  “So what does it all mean?”

  “It means the titles were gained through treason and fraud, John.” said Derek, interrupting David. “If we can prove it, we can take back Courtridge’s titles, and more importantly, his money. The Courtridge estate is built from title and heritage only.”

  “Ok great, so there’s a way. But aren’t most historical facts tainted by discrepancy despite the evidence anyway? How is this different? How can we use a five hundred year old diary to take billions of pounds away from one of the country’s most respected noblemen?”

  “Because this time it’s a matter of national security and quite frankly, life and death,” interjected Stypes, growing impatient. “Now we have methods of proving historical findings in a way that they didn’t have in the past. With forensics, pathology, photography, technical support, surveillance, audio; we have lots of advantages.”

  “So you’re going to pull up the bodies of the boys, ok, but surveillance? What are you talking about? I don’t get it.”

  “No, you clearly don’t get it, John. We want you to go back and get this evidence. Get it the way you know how - as a skilled detective, a good boss, and apparently an excellent undercover officer.”

  “Where exactly?!” asked John, becoming irate and frustrated. “Where, Stypes? Where, on earth do you want me to go? Stop being so bloody cryptic and tell me the fucking plan.”

  “Back in time, John,” Derek added, quietly. “You’re going back to the fifteenth Century.”

  “Is this some kind of joke? What do you mean back to the fifteenth century? People don’t just fly back to the fifteenth century, Derek. What are we going to do, time travel?”

  “I believe Mr Walker can help you there,” Derek replied hopefully, making John turn to the portly, excited man on his other side.

  “Please, Commander, call me Rich,” he said, grinning shyly. “About 4 years ago, a member of my team stumbled on a theory of particles and time. He believed that all particles remain for eternity in one form or another. They follow a path in their own place and that their path can be read in their appearance and response to radioactive movement. Other particles move around them; air, people, plant life. They have a history too. But particles in each place are separate. I take it you’ve read the texts on quantum physics and the theories of being able to walk through walls etcetera? That as slow as it will be, eventually your particles would get through a wall? Or that you die and your particles will always be here no matter what form? No?” He paused as he waited for understanding to fall over John’s impassive face. “Ah well, it’s fascinating in any case. Mr Bridge, please understand this is very complicated. But when analysing a place on this earth, we can read and explore its history by examining the particles there. By exploring the particles, we can go where the particles have been. And, we can send objects to any time in its history.”

  “So you can pick me up and put me somewhere else?”

  “No, we can’t teleport and never will be able to, that’s a ridiculous idea in science fiction novels. We won’t move you, we can’t move you. We move space and time around you. You stay in the same place, they move. We fix the permanent particles of the place in our machine with you and then work our way back through their history. As you are in there with them, well, you go along too. Wherever you start, you finish. Only you finish at a designated time in the history of the place alone. That’s why we can never operate underground or at an artificial altitude,” he added, smiling as though he was discussing the weather. “Of course we also can’t ever go into the future either; only into history and directly back to where you started. Take a look at these pictures,” he said, leaning across the table to pass a small bundle to John who whistled softly as he looked through the shots of the machine and records. Like a room-sized cabin, it looked too real to have been built as a joke and his mind whirled in confusion between what he believed and the evidence he was shown.

  “This is a lot to take in,” he said quietly. “Do you know if it’s safe?”

  “No human has been through it yet.”

  Derek raised his hands to quieten John as his face threatened an outburst, and nodded for Rich to continue.

  “It was considered too big a risk to try human life unle
ss it was for the good of the operation, such as when you go through. But we have sent many inanimate objects through; and a dog.”

  “A dog?”

  “Yes. We decided that we would wait a week and then send her back to when we were planning the test. We opened the door right then and there she was, inside the booth at the time we decided that we were going to set it for. Of course, once we decided she’d arrive at noon on the Sunday, she did arrive. In the week after that before we sent her back we already knew it had worked, so we conducted a number of tests and put her back through to arrive the moment we sent her. It’s all very confusing, the old ‘what happened first debate’ always is.”

  “It’s a head-fuck is what it is,” Derek added, grimacing.

  “In any case it’s been three months and she shows no sign of ill health at all.”

  “Who else knows about this?” John asked.

  “Just us five men here,” Derek spoke up again, “as well as the Commissioner, the Prime Minister and soon the rest of your team.”

  “What about the head of your agency, Stypes?” John asked with a glint of anger at the cocky nature of the older man sitting cross-legged in his cream suit before him.

  “I am the head of my agency, Inspector.”

  John smiled.

  “I thought so. Right, so who’s in my team then, Del?”

  “I will control from this end,” said Derek. “Though you will arrive back instantaneously in our time so there will be nothing from this end while you are there. With you, you will have David.” John and David nodded to each other. “He’s an expert on the period and you need him to get you through it. You also need a technician; from the video-forensic team we have a young lad called Chris Deacon who can fill the spot. He’s barely twenty three but he’s a genius. He’s spent the last six months training to operate your equipment, though so far he has no idea why. Next is Charlotte Birch; a thirty two year old surveillance officer. She’s one of the best in her field and her understanding of technical surveillance equipment is more than suitable. She’ll be a true asset for what you need to do. Finally, you have a home office agent, Jake Fletcher. He’s twenty eight and Peter tells me he’s the best he has in infiltration. Plus, he’s hard as nails, which helps. You’ve all been intrusively re-vetted without your knowledge and are considered safe to us.”

  “Oh, thanks,” John said, nodding as he made a mental note of the details. A historian, a technical geek, a surveillance trained female, a tough secret agent, and himself. He’d never heard of anything like it, let alone being stranded with such a team over five hundred years ago amongst god knows what. “Right,” he said, still not sure he believed them. “I suppose it’s the best we can hope for. A good team of experts and I take it a decent briefing with direct instructions?”

  “You’ll be briefed before you go.”

  “Got it, so what’s next and when?”

  “You must get started quickly; we have three months before the attack and less to hit our deadlines with Courtridge. You’ll have three days to wrap up stuff at work and at home, and then you’ll need to get down to the site. I’ll get you the exact address, but it’s a farm in Essex outside the village of Bradwell. You know the area?”

  “I know the direction. Bradwell on the fourth, ok,” John said, nervously.

  “Yes, the fourth. That’s where you’ll be briefed, see the portal, meet the team and start three weeks training. It’s residential, but there’s a gym and a chef,” Derek added smiling, knowing his friend. “I suggest you get going and make as much time as you can. And John,” he continued quietly. “Thanks for doing this. I know it sounds like bullshit and is going to put you through hell. But you’re all I know who can do it and it absolutely has to be done.”

  “I know,” John said, standing up and laying his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you at the farm then, Gentlemen?”

  “Not me, you won’t,” Stypes said as he stood. “You’ll likely never see me again, but the others will be there. Good luck, Bridge”

  They shook hands as John nodded to the others and finally walked out. He tried to retrace his steps to find his way out of the building and began to process the information he had been given. He had three days before his world turned on its head and as he crossed the warm, dry and busy street into St. James’ Park Station, he decided to head back to his office to clear his work for the last time. Then, he knew, he’d have to face the job of returning home to Chalkwell Beach, Essex to break the news to his wife Sophie and his two children. He’d say goodbye, then his life would change forever; which probably wasn’t for very long.

  Three

  June 3rd 2014

  As he pulled up outside his old, white-washed town house, John looked nervously at the front door he knew so well. The feel of the sun on his back and the sound of the seagulls of the Thames estuary squawking behind him made him wonder nervously if the world and its weather would feel the same in the fifteenth century. He hated the idea of being killed, alone, in a world he neither liked nor understood and for the two days since his meeting, he’d been able to think of nothing else. He took a deep breath and stepped up towards the wooden door, jumping back in surprise as a face appeared in the glass and it opened before he knocked. Seeing his wife, Sophie, standing in the doorway gave him the familiar blow to his chest that made him feel like she’d asked him to leave all over again. It had been two years since she told him she couldn’t handle his extra-work any longer and that he’d left her no choice but to ask him to leave. She still loved him, she said, but she knew he wouldn’t be himself if she asked him to change and she couldn’t bring herself to do that. John had never given up hope that she’d change her mind and had remained faithful even after living elsewhere for a full eighteen months. More recently, though, she had met Steve the banker. John couldn’t deny he was a nice bloke with a good career, and that he was even good for his kids. But still he resented the man for taking his family from him and every time they met he considered throwing the skinny marathon runner into the sea just fifty metres away.

  “Hi Soph,” he managed to say, as he looked up at the tall, elegant frame of his ex-wife. Wearing a navy and white polka-dot summer dress, she looked as beautiful as ever with her circular, brown eyes and the chestnut, brown fringe that always fell over them and onwards, down to her shoulders.

  “What brings you here, John?” She asked merrily, dazzling him as always with her light mood and smile.

  “We need to talk, are the kids in?”

  “Not for another half an hour. School is only just finishing, what is it?”

  “Steve?”

  “No, Work. What is it, John? I’ve seen that look before,” she said, stepping back to allow him into the house.

  Saying nothing, he walked in with his glum expression and headed straight through to the kitchen through their open archway. Nothing had changed in his old house, and sitting at the oak table to the rear of the room, he felt as though he could’ve been sitting down for a drink with their friends as he had for such a large part of his life.

  “I’m going on another deployment,” he said, holding his breath.

  “I knew it!” Sophie shouted, looking more upset than angry. “How can you do that? What about the kids? How can they go without seeing you again for months on end and not even know if you’ll be coming back alive?”

  “They don’t know I’m doing anything dangerous.”

  “Are you?”

  John sat still, choosing an obvious silence over a lie.

  “Well then. They know you’re going away on work for months and can’t even call them. And they haven’t forgotten you being shot, John. That tore them apart. It tore all of us apart,” she added as her eyes began to well up.

  John absently touched the scar at the top-left of his chest and felt his own emotions stir at the sight of his wife’s tears.

  “Sophie, please listen to me,” he pleaded. “This is a matter of National Security and there are no other options. It
must be me, and it must be now. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. Not for me, our kids, or this country. Without this we are all in danger and I really have no choice. We have no choice.”

  She sat quietly and watched him.

  “It’s not actually that bad,” he continued. “I’m on a three week training course close by and can call the kids, and then when I’m away it’s only for the day anyway.”

  “One day? Then why come round looking like that?”

  “Because it’s the most dangerous assignment I’ve ever done and it’s never been attempted before. I just really don’t know how it’s going to pan out. I’m going to be trained and I’m confident in my abilities, of course; but this, well, it’s something else. As I said, there’s no choice, so there is no point me worrying about it and quite frankly I need your support.”

  “How can you ask me that?”

  “I just need to know you understand why. If anything happens to me, I need you to tell the kids why. I need to be sure that you know I wouldn’t take these risks for nothing.”

  “Or that you chose your assignments over living long enough to see them married with your grandchildren?”

  “No, that if I didn’t do it, then we could all die anyway and there would probably never be any weddings, grandchildren or even another Christmas, ok? I have no choice.”

  Nodding quietly, Sophie turned away to pour tea and John saw her wipe her eyes. They drank and talked for a while until the front door flew open and a loud burst of noise filled the space around them. John smiled at the familiar racket.

  “I can’t believe you said that, you little brat!” came the high pitched shout of his fifteen year old daughter, Holly.

  She stormed into the kitchen with her hands on her head not even noticing her father in her rage.

  “What’s happened?” asked Sophie.

  “I told her boyfriend that she sings about him in the shower,” answered his son proudly as he walked into the kitchen smiling. Taller than average for his age with floppy blonde hair, John’s thirteen year old son Danny was as mischievous as he looked. “Oh, hi Dad,” he said grinning.