The rest of the journey into London was uneventful. No one else joined Hart’s carriage, and no more bad portents were shared. None, except the recorded announcement that whispered through the carriage from whistling, tired speakers.
“London Euston, we are now arriving at London Euston. Please ensure all bags and possessions are taken with you. All customers must proceed down the platform to security screening.”
A shudder moved up Hart’s spine; this was the first of many hurdles he would have to jump to get where he was going. He’d practiced this journey a few times in the last month, and had a plan.
The artist looked at his watch for the hundredth time as the train ground to a halt: 18:34. A few minutes late, but that helped. He knew the guards on the platform changed shifts at twenty to, so if he could just slow his exit by a few minutes, the distraction would-
With a crash, something large knocked into the window beside him. It was a man, thrown against the train. Hart watched as he fell to his knees, before being lifted again by two KF guards. He tried to claw at the window, to cling to the train like flotsam in a maelstrom, but it did no good. Hart recognised him, the old coughing man from Stockport. The abject terror in his eyes matched his screaming, rasping voice.
“My papers. I have them. I’m legal. I swear. I-”
A KF guard hit the old man in the back of the head with the butt of her REN-6. Hart saw his eyes roll back into his head as he slid down the window, out of sight. The guard said something into the radio on her chest, and gestured to her partner to drag the man away from the train. She looked at Hart for a moment, nodded, then turned away.
Hart slid down into his chair, processing what he’d just seen. He didn’t know the old man’s story, or even his name. He was perhaps a little odd-looking, a little old to be travelling, especially alone. Hart’s mind looped over explanations and justifications for what he’d seen. Searching for logic. He shook his head. What the fuck was logical about any of this?
He gathered his duffel and portfolio, and made his way to the exit. Stepping out, Hart saw that the train’s other passengers were already filling the station, shuffling towards the checkpoint.
18:37. His eyes lingered on the watch, observing the seconds, praying for them to speed along. He could barely see the dull LCD screen in the shadow of the platform. More fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered overhead. He walked as slowly as he could down the platform, letting others brush past him. Conscripts with newer, cleaner versions of the same duffel he carried. Students, engineers, cleaners. All of humanity was here, all of it attempting to get into London.
Up ahead, a small crowd had formed around a young woman. Hart recognised her, a singer, quite a good one. She was being swept forward with her own KF guard contingent, the one who attacked the old man among them. Most of her onlookers were hesitant, either out of respect or fear of her guards, though the braver among them were taking photographs with disposable cameras and asking her to sign their tickets. Hart saw her guided into an alarmed side door, safe from the crowds and unburdened by security. He wished that portrait artists enjoyed the same level of celebrity. That would have made his entry far more straightforward.
18:40. Shift change. Hart looked to the rows of KF Guards checking bags and walking passengers through metal detectors. They looked settled, though. Nobody was getting up, putting on a coat or sunglasses for the summer’s day outside the station. He saw the old man, held down by two guards as he flailed, a third administering some kind of medicine. He hoped they were helping. They weren’t. The old man went limp.
18:42. The shift hadn’t changed. Why hadn’t it changed? Was it the young starlet, the old man? Fuck. Hart was only a few passengers back from the checkpoint now.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. A hand attached to a Virginian accent.
“Follow my lead. If you’re doing this, then let’s avoid hurting any of these good people.”
Bartlett pushed in front of him as the way cleared. He put his briefcase down in front of the exhausted looking guard, making an extravagant show of unlocking it, and smiled as he handed over his papers.
The guard’s eyes widened as he read them. With a shaking hand, he slammed the briefcase shut.
“N-not necessary, sir. You can go through.”
“And my friend here? Hart. A good man, but in a hurry.”
“Yes, of course, of course. Please”
The guard waved, his face alternating between fear and fake smiles. The Virginian’s hand returned to Hart’s shoulder and pulled him through the checkpoint, artfully dodging the metal detectors. The artist’s duffel and portfolio never rising to the table at all.
And like a magic trick, they were at the taxi rank.
“How?” Hart asked. There were more words to be said, but his mind was struggling to catch up, and had left his mouth behind.
“I have good papers and a winning personality!” He smiled a wide, toothy smile. Hart believed him.
“Now go, friend. If you insist upon this foolish mission, then it serves all of our purposes for you to move quickly. We never met, and you never saw me, do you understand?”
“I’m already forgetting.” Hart said. He gave it the tone of a joke, but the truth was, as the adrenaline subsided, his mind was returning to his next steps, to the bomb in his bag. He imagined he would forget Bartlett soon enough. He had more important things to focus on. Further hurdles.
“Good, good. For what it’s worth, I’m rooting for you.”
The Virginian left him there alone as a cab pulled up. Hart climbed in, stumbling to arrange his portfolio and duffel on the facing seat. With everything in its rightful place, he sat back. A voice chirped through a tinny speaker next to his head.
“Where to, boss?”
It was time to meet his patron, and his target.
“Westminster, please. Buckingham Palace”.