The envelope was sellotaped to the base of the painting's frame. George Stokes had just finished easing it free when his wristwatch started emitting a reedy beep.
'That's it, lad, our time's up. We're too late. The alarm sensors are going back on right throughout the building. I don't know how I'm going to get you out of here now.' He shone his torch back along the corridor.
'What happens if we don't make it?' asked Vince.
'Every light in and around this place goes on, and sirens start up the likes of which won't have been heard in the capital since the Second World War,' he explained grimly. 'Make for that doorway over there. Stay off the carpet, but don't go any nearer than five feet to the wall. Don't touch anything.'
Thirty years of prowling the museum had caused the custodian to develop a delicate, silent run that made him appear to move on invisible wires. He sped through each eerie sepulchre like a tardy ghost. Vince could see thin pencil-beams of light flicking on all around them at a height of about eighteen inches from the floor. The sparkling red latticework was like a computerised spiderweb. Breaking any one of the gossamer lines would be enough to trip the entire alarm system.
A quadrant of beams pulsed on at his feet, forcing him to slow and step between them. 'Christ,' he whispered, 'they're everywhere.'
He was about to run through the archway leading to the main entrance when a row of beams appeared like a glittering ladder across the opening. Dropping to his knees and sliding the last few feet, he was able to avoid touching them by a matter of centimetres.
They reached the hall through which Vince had entered, and Stokes dived behind the reception desk just as the last of the override switches in the steel alarm box switched itself back on.
He looked up at Vince through a sweating bushy brow. 'That was too bloody close for comfort, lad,' he panted, pulling Vince towards a small side door. 'Well, you've got your precious envelope. Arthur Bryant has used up his last favour with me. I'm going back upstairs to fabricate some story for Albert. If you get into any further difficulties tonight you're on your own, understand?'
Vince clutched the unopened letter in his hand and looked out across Trafalgar Square. He was relieved to be out of the gallery without tripping the alarms. The rain had momentarily eased, and the roads were almost empty. An odd, contemplative stillness filled the air, as if the goddess of the city had momentarily fallen asleep.
Vince dug the phone from his jacket and rang Pam, but her answering machine switched itself on. The message she had left was a week old. He wondered if Louie had returned yet. It was unlikely, but worth a try. Vince punched out his number and waited, only to find himself connected to another answering machine. He gave the recording device his present location and Harold Masters' number before ringing off. A call to Esther connected him to a third tape machine. This time he hung up.
Where were all his friends? He had never felt so completely alone. His only link to the city's warm-and-normal interior world was via the lifeline to Harold Masters. He felt like chucking in the whole thing. What was the point of continuing, anyway? Let them bury the damned book, let them shut him up and anyone else that got in their way, what difference did it really make? He could find something else to write about for Esther. If they were that clever and all-powerful, they probably possessed both copies of the manuscript by now. He should have put them somewhere safer instead of placing Esther and Louie at risk.
He was exhausted. His arms and legs were turning into dead timber. He had twisted his right knee in the gallery. If he abandoned the game now and threw away the League's damned envelope, just turned on his boot-heel and caught the first night bus home, what would Sebastian do? Kill him? Where the hell were the League anyway? Did they really have nothing better to do than watch him stumbling blindly through the night? He wanted to be back in Betty's inviting arms, not stuck here in the city he had only thought he loved. He looked across the wet road to St Martin in the Fields, at the blank eyes of the security cameras peering down from the eaves like so many metallic ravens. The question nagged at him; what would they do if he stopped?
Well, there was one way to find out. He walked over to the nearest litter bin and with a grand flourish directed at the lenses monitoring his actions, dropped the envelope in. Fuck 'em, he thought. Let's see what happens now.
'Sebastian! He's quit!' Caton-James came running up the stairs. 'He's thrown away the seventh challenge and walked off!'
Sebastian had been dozing on the couch when Caton-James came bursting in. Elgar's Nimrod was playing softly in the background. 'Are you sure?' he asked, rubbing his hands briskly over his face.
'St John Warner just located him on the monitor. I told you this whole thing was a stupid idea. You had to turn it into a game, didn't you? What the hell are we going to do now?'
'Shut up for a minute and let me think.' He pulled himself upright and tried to awaken his brain. The room temperature had dropped in the last hour, and the Chelsea streets had grown silent as the night deepened. 'How many more has he got to cover?'
'Four. The most important ones. You shouldn't have grouped them all together. This whole enterprise is so bloody fraught with risk it's a wonder we haven't been caught yet. If the WBI gets wind of this -'
'How could they? Show some fortitude, Bunter. There's very little actual risk involved. Reynolds needs to be frightened into completing his tasks. Does he know about his little helper being taken out of the picture?'
'We lost him for a while in Vauxhall, but I don't see how, no.'
'So, he's not in fear of his life, or anyone else's. We have to change that.'
'The girl downstairs?'
Sebastian considered the option. 'It's the most obvious solution, but my gut reaction is to get rid of someone else. She's on the premises, which makes it risky. Someone might have spotted her coming up here. You can see the house clearly from the road. Besides, we don't know enough about her, who her family is, who she knows. I'm short of facts. Barwick could at least have interrogated her but of course he didn't, and Stevens isn't much better.'
He rose and tensed the muscles in his tired arms. 'Still, we might threaten him with her demise, not that I trust hostage situations. They always seem to end in tears. There's something irredeemably vulgar about kidnap. And I have a feeling it would encourage him to come here rather than concentrate on finishing the game. Where is Xavier, by the way?'
'Right now he's busy tearing up some estate agent's office, searching for Reynolds's copy of his text. The girl told him she'd hidden it there.'
'Get him on the phone and tell him not to bother looking.'
'You don't think he'll find it? He already turned over her flat and found nothing.'
'Just do as I say, will you? Don't try to think.'
It seemed obvious to him that Reynolds would not have risked the life of his best friend by asking her to hide the manuscript in her apartment. Having monitored Goldstone's mobile calls, Sebastian knew that one disk had been left with the agent, who was used to handling such documents, and the other with 'someone who could take care of himself'. Which narrowed it down to the last member of their trio, the one they called Louie.