Lies, Damned Lies, and History(40)

‘For God’s sake,’ said Peterson. ‘One pregnant woman. One midget with mange. One incredibly handsome man. Who else could it be but us?’

‘You’re not that short,’ said Markham.

‘Just shut up and do the thing with the door.’

Markham took a deep breath, hummed a series of notes under his breath, and stared at the keypad. ‘The first key is always the shiniest,’ he muttered, flexed his fingers like an internationally renowned classical pianist, and then in one swift, confident movement, tapped in the code, twisted the handle, and stepped back to allow us in.

We found ourselves in a large, open workspace. Various tables were dotted around. Computer monitors stood on every flat surface. Map cabinets were ranged against the far wall. But artefacts – none.

‘This way,’ said Peterson, and we strode confidently across the room to another door. A long corridor stretched before us, with two doors on each side, helpfully labelled A45, A49, B15 and M400. I hoped their artefact classification system was a little less random than their door numbering.

The secret is not to creep. To look as if you have every right to be there. I was at the front, holding my scratchpad, cover story prepared, but we never needed it. The place was deserted. I probably shouldn’t say this, but anyone wishing to break into a major academic establishment could do worse than consider a Friday afternoon. If challenged, our story was that we were lost and once we identified ourselves as St Mary’s, no one would doubt it.

We worked our way down the corridor. We would tap at the door, receive no reply, and slither inside. Markham would keep watch while Peterson and I worked our way around the room, scanning the classification labels.

The last door was locked.

‘Aha,’ said Markham. ‘A chance for me to demonstrate my talents again. Out of the way, Max. Let the dog see the rabbit.’

I stood nervously while he did whatever he needed to. There was no camera coverage in this corridor, but should anyone challenge us, our ‘lost and confused’ story wasn’t going to account for Markham’s obviously criminal activities. The one advantage, however, was that the fire door was right opposite, should we need to get out in a hurry.

More quickly than I could have imagined, there was a slight ‘snick’.

‘God, I’m good,’ he said, stowing something away in his pocket.

Peterson and I surged forwards.

‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Seriously, you two shouldn’t be allowed out on your own. If the door is locked then it’s probably alarmed as well.’

‘It’s not the only one,’ muttered Peterson. ‘I’m bloody terrified.’

Markham had pulled out a tiny torch and was examining around the doorframe, muttering to himself. He inspected the handle closely.

‘Well?’ said Peterson, ‘is it?’

‘Don’t know. Probably.’

‘How can we find out?’

‘Open the door and if a bloody siren goes off then yes, it is.’

‘Can’t you fix it?’

‘No.’

‘What’s happening?’ said Roberts in my ear.

‘Technical discussion,’ I whispered. ‘Just keep your eyes open. And be prepared to move fast.’

Markham took hold of the handle. ‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’

‘Yes,’ said Peterson with confidence.

‘I think so,’ I said, with marginally less confidence.

‘Right,’ said Markham. ‘On three.’

‘One.’ He opened the door and pushed us in.

‘You said three,’ I said accusingly.

‘I lied.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve just broken into a top academic facility. On what grounds did you expect me to be truthful as well? Now get on with it.’

‘The alarm didn’t go off,’ I said. ‘That means we’re OK.’

He looked at me pityingly. ‘Ever heard the words “silent alarm”?’

‘Oh.’

‘Just bloody get on with it, will you. I’ll watch the door.’

We found ourselves in a large room with floor-to-ceiling wooden drawers. Some were shallow. Some deep. Some were long and flat. Others tall and thin. Some were tiny. Some were glass fronted, displaying artefacts. The old wood was darkened with age. The brass handles gleamed. All the joints were beautifully dovetailed. It was a work of art in its own right. I would have given anything to be able to examine it at leisure. I sighed. It seemed very likely that after today, none of us would ever have that opportunity.

Our computer talks to their computer. We had the classification number. This should be a piece of cake.

‘Right,’ whispered, Peterson. ‘It’s a sword. Look for drawers that are long and flat.’