When the teeth-rattling echo of heavy machinery finally ceased, Crowley made his way to Atlantic Avenue. Blake, standing in the middle of the street, noticed the magician’s approach first, and signaled his own men to stand down.
“I was about to give up on you, Aleister.”
Crowley removed his nondescript fedora and gently rubbed his ears. Despite the late winter chill, his coat was unbuttoned, flapping in the icy wind. Crowley barely noticed. He had survived far worse weather in his mountaineering days.
“I was waiting a block away for the racket to cease. My ears are still ringing from the pounding of those pneumatic drills.” He peered down into the ragged hole the Bureau had dug in the middle of Atlantic Avenue.
“We call them jack-hammers.” Blake spoke louder than necessary, due to the ringing in his own ears.
“Of course you would. Have we, you, broken through?”
“We just finished widening the access.”
Two Bureau agents angled a twenty-foot ladder into the gap. It stopped with a yard to spare.
“Time for introductions. Aleister Crowley.” Blake turned to the man beside him as he spoke. “This gentleman is Edmond Fiske. He’s a lieutenant with the New York Police bomb squad. His expertise has proven invaluable in the last few years.”
Fiske extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Crowley. Bob tells me you’ve been working for the British govern…?”
Crowley raised a finger to pursed lips, even though the area had been cleared of people for a block in every direction. Fiske nodded, realizing his gaffe. Behind his own tight smile, Crowley feared Blake and his associates might be getting careless. “The British Cultural Exchange, yes. We’ve been researching the history of train travel in both our countries. This is one of the earliest underground tunnels in the world.”
“Our job would’ve been easier if we knew how the saboteurs themselves were getting in here,” Blake complained.
“We still don’t know that they are,” Crowley reminded him. “My own sources were still unable to verify your information.”
“Well, our people have been coming up empty for months as well. This is the only lead we’ve had. We need to at least check it out.” Blake’s frown did not differ much from his normal resting face. “You don’t usually tag along on these investigations, Aleister. Working in the shadows, that’s more your style. Aren’t you worried you might expose your cover?”
I’m more concerned that your people might do it for me, Crowley thought, glancing at Fiske again. He said nothing, however, shrugging off the misstep. This time.
“What can I say? I love forgotten places. Gives me the same thrill I get from mountaineering.”
Crowley watched Fiske descend the ladder to the tunnel floor, then followed with a flourish of his coattails. Blake was right behind him.
“In any case,” the magician continued, when all three men were below ground, “considering how much noise your people made, I can’t imagine anyone hiding down here would not have left.”
“That may be,” Blake replied, “but they won’t have had time to clear out their equipment. I left two men standing by up top, in case someone tries to follow us. If we’re lucky, perhaps our German friends will show while we’re down here.”
The trio swung their flashlights in different directions. Scattered debris created uneven footing, but the bedrock walls and brick arches overhead seemed quite solid for a structure that had been neglected for over half a century. The air was stale, but breathable, and the ground surprisingly dry.
Crowley checked the revolver in his right coat pocket, which was counterbalanced by the electric torch and assorted other tools in his left. A year had passed since he’d been accidentally shot in the leg; he did not wish to repeat the experience. The Beast also preferred his own familiar weapon to the Bureauissued guns.
“We might cover more ground, quicker, if we split up,” the magician advised. Now that he was getting the feel of this tunnel, he was more than ever certain they would find no evidence of German saboteurs down here, and that this whole enterprise would prove a futile exercise for the Bureau of Investigation. He was further convinced, however, having spent decades dealing with magic rituals and effects, that this confined space housed something far more sinister. Something no ordinary government agent was equipped to deal with.
“Mr. Crowley,” Blake interrupted. “If you don’t mind. I’m the lead investigator here. You are merely a consultant.”
“Of course,” Crowley conceded, bowing to hide his smirk.
Blake accepted the apology with a curt nod. “Right. Fiske, we’ll split up, cover more territory that way. I’ll head north, you two go south.”
“I’m willing to scout ahead of Lieutenant Fiske and work my way backwards,” Crowley volunteered.
“Agreed.” Blake knew better than to chastise Crowley too often. “If you need help, or find something, give a yell. Shouts should echo pretty well down here.”
For the next quarter-hour, the only sounds Crowley heard were the scraping of shoes against stone, and an occasional soft curse as Blake or Fiske stumbled over a loose patch of debris, or across a stretch of long-disused track.
He stopped a yard short of a brick wall that blocked the entire tunnel. Crowley knew he was still some distance from the original end, which had faced New York Bay. Somebody wanted this section double-sealed. Who? Why? And how recently?
He ran his flashlight beam along the edges of the wall, then turned it off, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.
A faint green luminescence glowed in the lower left corner.
Crowley knelt closer. The light seemed to ooze from a gap in the cracked lip of a carved stone box. He ran his fingers over the unfamiliar symbols, as if reading Braille. When the fleshy tips started to go numb, he pulled back.
He tried to pick up the box, and found it was partially embedded in that wall. Removing a chisel from his left pocket, Crowley started chipping away. When he felt the box shift, he put away his tool and tugged hard with both hands.
He winced at the pain in his back and strained as the object resisted. Then it popped free.
The lid flew open, emitting a blinding flash of green light. Crowley slammed it shut at once. Whatever was contained within was definitely beyond the pale of mere saboteurs.
Behind him, a thin, cracking voice asked, “Was ist los?”
Crowley! Robert Suydam fumed as he stood on the curb at Atlantic Avenue, midway between Clinton and Henry Streets. He turned to hide his anger, though no one could see his face. How in the name of the Elder Gods did that fraud get connected to the U.S. government’s Bureau of Investigation?
Or was he? It seemed far more likely the eccentric cult leader had also somehow discovered hints of the ancient, alien artifact hidden below these streets. He probably slipped past the Bureau agents as a side-effect of the distraction spell Suydam himself had cast. Even a buffoon like Crowley, who gave serious masters of the dark arts a bad name, might occasionally stumble across objects of import. The old man was tempted to keep his distance. Let the fool destroy himself.
No. Such inaction might cost Suydam his own opportunity to obtain the precious artifact.
He boldly strode up to, then past, two government men standing near the jack-hammered entry. His long frock coat flapped. He waved his cane dramatically by its heavy brass grip, as if daring them to react.
Moments later, Robert Suydam was below street level.