Chapter 13: THE HARRINGTON WAREHOUSE
The black sedan didn't belong.
Everything else in the Docklands fit—the cargo lorries rumbling past, the dock workers in flat caps and worn coats, the warehouse buildings squatting along the Thames like weathered soldiers. But that sedan, parked fifty meters from the Harrington warehouse with two men sitting inside, stood out like a dinner jacket at a boxing match.
"Germans." Sam's voice was low, controlled. He'd spotted them the same moment I had.
Tommy kept driving, maintaining the steady pace of a shipping company vehicle making rounds. We'd hired the car that morning—a battered delivery van with "MERCER & SONS FREIGHT" stenciled on the side. Forgery courtesy of Tommy's contact network, assembled in the three hours since we'd landed at Southampton.
"Could be coincidence," Tommy said, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it.
"Two men in suits, watching a warehouse that contains our target, the day before it's scheduled to ship to Hamburg." I kept my eyes forward, resisting the urge to stare. "That's not coincidence."
We passed the warehouse at normal speed. Two-story brick building, Victorian architecture slowly crumbling under decades of river damp. Loading dock facing the water, side entrance on the narrow street. Two guards visible at the main entrance—uniformed, bored, sharing a cigarette like men who expected nothing to happen.
The blueprints Tommy had obtained matched reality. That was something, at least.
"Circle the block," I said. "Sam, I need you to talk to the dock workers. Find out what you can about recent visitors."
Sam nodded once and slipped out when Tommy slowed near a public house called the Anchor and Crown. The pub's windows were steamed with condensation, its doorway dark and inviting. The kind of place where information flowed as freely as the beer.
Tommy and I continued circling while Sam disappeared inside. The Docklands spread around us in a maze of warehouses, shipping offices, and narrow streets that dated back centuries. The Thames slid past, gray and patient, carrying barges toward the sea.
"If the Germans are here," Tommy said quietly, "they're not waiting for Hamburg delivery."
"No." The thought had already occurred to me. "They're planning something. Today, maybe."
"Which means our timeline just collapsed."
The words hung in the van's cab. We'd planned for a nighttime operation—2 AM entry, minimal guards, maximum darkness. Now that window might not exist. If the Germans had legal transfer paperwork, they could walk into that warehouse in broad daylight and claim the dagger before we ever got close.
Thirty minutes later, Sam emerged from the pub and walked three blocks to our prearranged pickup point. He climbed into the van without urgency, settling into the seat behind me before speaking.
"German businessmen arrived yesterday. Three of them. Asked questions at the shipping office about Carnarvon estate cargo." His voice was flat, professional—the tone of a soldier delivering battlefield intelligence. "They have transfer documents. Official-looking, according to the clerk who processed them. They're planning to claim the crate this afternoon."
"This afternoon." Tommy's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "That gives us—"
"Hours. Maybe less."
The safe house was a flat in Bethnal Green that Tommy had arranged through contacts I'd decided not to ask about. Third floor of a boarding house, two rooms and a shared lavatory down the hall. The landlord had accepted three months' rent in advance and promised not to remember our faces.
Steinberg was waiting when we arrived, surrounded by the containment materials Henderson had shipped ahead. The lead-lined case sat open on the table, salt packets arranged beside it, heavy gloves folded neatly on top. Everything we needed to safely handle an artifact that allegedly caused wounds which never healed.
"The Germans," Steinberg said when we'd finished explaining. His accent thickened under stress, the careful English giving way to harsher consonants. "They have official documents?"
"Appears so. They're moving to claim the dagger legally."
"Then we cannot wait for darkness."
The statement was obvious, but hearing it spoken aloud made the situation concrete. We'd planned this operation assuming time and cover. Now we had neither.
I moved to the window, looking down at the street three stories below. An old woman pushed a cart of vegetables toward the market. A child chased a dog between the lampposts. The ordinary rhythm of a London afternoon, completely unaware that four Americans were planning to commit international theft a few miles away.
"Lunch," I said.
Sam looked up. "What?"
"The guard rotation. Tommy's notes said they take lunch breaks between noon and one. Skeleton crew during that hour." I turned from the window. "If we go in during lunch, we have minimal opposition. The Germans are expecting to make a legal claim this afternoon—they won't anticipate someone hitting the warehouse before they do."
"Daylight entry." Tommy's voice carried skepticism. "More witnesses. Less cover. Higher risk of being identified."
"Also higher chance of success. The guards will be off their game, thinking about food instead of security. The dock workers will be in the pubs. And the Germans—" I checked my watch. "—won't expect anyone to be that stupid."
"Because it is stupid." But Tommy was already pulling out his notebook, sketching possible approaches. "If we're doing this, I need to create a distraction. Something that pulls the remaining guards away from the cargo area."
"A delivery complaint." Sam's mouth quirked slightly. "You're good at outrage."
"I'm exceptional at outrage." Tommy's pen moved across paper. "Fake paperwork, missing cargo, accusations of incompetence. Give me ten minutes with those guards, and they won't be watching anything except me."
Steinberg rose from his chair and began organizing the containment materials with deliberate precision. His hands shook slightly as he folded the gloves, as he checked the seals on the lead case, as he counted the salt packets for the third time.
Sam noticed. He didn't say anything—just positioned himself closer to the researcher, a silent presence that communicated support without words.
"Doctor." I waited until Steinberg looked up. "You don't have to come inside. You can wait in the car, handle containment when we bring the artifact out."
"That is—" He stopped, swallowed. "That would be acceptable. Yes."
"Sam and I will handle the extraction. Tommy creates the distraction. You make sure we have somewhere safe to put the thing once we have it."
Relief flickered across Steinberg's face, followed immediately by shame. He'd survived flight from Germany, deportation proceedings, the terror of losing everything he'd built. But the prospect of walking into a dangerous situation with no academic framework to protect him—that was a different kind of fear.
"I have never done fieldwork," he said quietly. "In Berlin, I was always the one who studied what others brought back. The safe hands in the laboratory. Not the—" He gestured vaguely. "Not this."
"That's why we have roles." I met his eyes directly. "Your expertise is in understanding these artifacts. Sam's expertise is in keeping people safe. Mine is in—" I paused, unsure how to finish the sentence. "In making decisions that put the right people in the right places."
"And mine," Tommy added, "is in making the impossible possible. Speaking of which—" He held up his notebook. "—here's how we're getting in."
The plan took shape over the next thirty minutes. Tommy would approach the warehouse office at 12:25, armed with forged delivery receipts and a performance of righteous fury that would draw both remaining guards into an argument about missing cargo. Sam and I would enter through the side door—Tommy had identified a lock model we could defeat quickly—and locate the Carnarvon crate using the shipping manifests we'd obtained.
Once we had the dagger, we'd exit the same way we came in. Steinberg would be waiting in the car around the corner, containment case ready. Tommy would extricate himself from the argument and meet us at the vehicle. Total time inside the warehouse: fifteen minutes maximum.
Simple. Clean. Completely dependent on nothing going wrong.
"What about the Germans?" Sam asked. "If they're planning an afternoon claim, they could arrive while we're inside."
"We move fast enough that they don't get the chance." The words sounded more confident than I felt. "In and out before anyone knows we were there."
Sam studied me for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, he apparently found it.
"Understood."
At 11:45, we loaded into the car. Tommy drove, navigating London's streets with the same precision he'd applied to logistics planning. Steinberg sat in the passenger seat, containment case clutched in his lap, knuckles white around its handle. Sam and I occupied the back, checking equipment one last time.
Crowbar. Lock picks. Flashlight. Gloves.
The tools of a thief. Added to the skills of a museum curator who'd never stolen anything more valuable than a pen from a faculty meeting.
"You're not that man anymore."
The thought came unbidden, carrying the weight of everything that had changed since waking in that hospital bed. David Webb had catalogued artifacts. Jameson Caldwell—whoever he was becoming—stole them.
The warehouse appeared ahead, brick and iron and the weight of what we were about to do.
"Any objections?" I asked.
No one spoke.
"Then let's go steal history."
Author's Note / Support the Story
Your Reviews and Power Stones help the story grow! They are the best way to support the series and help new readers find us.
Want to read ahead? Get instant access to more chapters by supporting me on Patreon. Choose your tier to skip the wait:
⚔️ Noble ($7): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public.
👑 Royal ($11): Read 17 chapters ahead of the public.
🏛️ Emperor ($17): Read 24 chapters ahead of the public.
Weekly Updates: New chapters are added every week. See the pinned "Schedule" post on Patreon for the full update calendar.
👉 Join here: patreon.com/Kingdom1Building