Free The Plantagenet Vendetta by John Paul Davis

facility.
    Two burly men had been placed on the doors, standing rigidly to attention. Like their colleagues above the surface, they were dressed in the typical undress uniform of a Yeoman Warder: dark blue with red trimmings, including the symbol of the Crown and the letters SIIR, denoting the reign of the present monarch, Stephen II. Like all Yeomen Warders, they were NCOs and had previously served over twenty-two years in the British Army.
    But unlike their colleagues above ground, both men carried L85A2 automatic weapons.
    The standard weaponry of the British Army.
    Both Beefeaters turned to face the prince and immediately saluted. Without further word, the Beefeater on the left escorted Thomas to the end of the corridor and inserted an eight-digit pin into the keypad on reaching a metal door.
    This was the most exclusive part of the Tower of London: a secure facility known as the Cromwell Tower, named in honour of its creator. Unlike the building above, the facility did not appear on the itinerary of any guided tour. Indeed, its existence was known only to a select few.
    He was among the select.
    Thomas waited for the door to open, and was immediately greeted by a man of imposing features, measuring six foot three with red hair and a matching goatee. His appearance was impeccable, typical of an officer. Thomas knew the man well, and had done for years.
    He was the Constable of the Tower of London, a position of rare privilege. He was Sir Thomas Edmondes, Chief Yeoman Warder.
    The man saluted. “Good evening, Captain.”
    The prince returned the salute. “Before I joined the army, I would never have believed such a p-place to be p-possible.”
    Edmondes led the way along the next corridor, its appearance in keeping with the one before. “The less public exposure a man like Morris receives, the better,” the Constable of the Tower began. “I’ve tried interrogating him myself several times; the man seems to be a complete lunatic.”
    The statement matched the rumours. “What of his background?”
    “Prior to recent days, practically nothing. He’s former military, almost certainly a professional assassin. It isn’t every day you find someone who’s taken monastic orders who has the ability to administer explosives to a government vehicle and detonate it.”
    “Any progress on determining the s-substance?”
    “Tests are ongoing.”
    “He’s said nothing of his background or training?”
    Edmondes shook his head. “No. But madman or not, his expertise is far ranging. And if correctly driven, most profitable.”
    “You believe him to be a h-hired assassin?”
    “In truth, we don’t know. His answers have been peculiarly ambiguous – quite obviously rehearsed. At this stage, nothing can be taken for granted.”
    They reached another metal door, which Edmondes opened using a code. This was the quietest part of the facility. Another smaller corridor followed: its walls painted grey, with the lack of light adding to the gloom. Even from the doorway, Thomas could sense the depression. It was as if something lingered in the air.
    The cumulative result of the building’s history.
    Edmondes led Thomas to the second door on the left, visually a large sheet of reinforced steel. The door opened electronically as Edmondes placed his palm into the scanner, revealing a small desolate room, partitioned into two by metal railings.
    What Thomas saw left him speechless. It was as if the prison cells of the past, like those of the building above, had been established again in this modern-day facility, over fifty metres below the surface.
    “Here he is,” Edmondes said, pointing.
    For several seconds Thomas looked at what appeared to be an empty cell. Then, he saw movement on the floor. Something was there, definitely alive. He could see blond hair, probably bleached, and crew cut.
    The man sat with his back to the newcomers, stripped to the waist and with his hands joined together. From Thomas’s position, the man