“True, but are you absolutely sure she had no idea what it was all about?”
“I’m certain,” Simon said firmly.
“Even so, under the circumstances, I’m uncomfortable about information of such a sensitive nature escaping across the Atlantic. The last thing we need after all this is loose ends.”
“I can understand that, but rest assured there are none.”
“Besides that, the CIA want to know what happened to Monica. As a gesture of détente, I promised to send you over to see them. And given you’re heading stateside anyway, I can’t see it’s an issue.”
“How did you know? I only booked the flight to New York this morning!”
“I won’t even grace that statement with a response.” Jenkins raised an eyebrow. “Now, given the flight to Washington is a short hop from NYC, for the sake of both the CIA—with whom I hope to maintain a much closer relationship than my predecessor—and for the unfortunate situation that you so expertly handled for us this end, I have to send someone. On all levels, it’s best if it’s you. They’ll want a full debrief of what happened that night, Burrows’s state of mind, et cetera. The good news is, it would mean your entire sabbatical would be all expenses paid—first class all the way. We’ve already upgraded your current ticket and it’s two or three days at most, placating them.”
“Right.” Simon swallowed hard. “To be honest, sir, I just wanted some time out. Off duty,” he added firmly.
“And you will have it. However, once an agent, always an agent. You know the rules of the game, Warburton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Sign for a company credit card on your way out. Don’t go too mad.”
“I’ll do my best not to, sir.” Simon put his glass on the table and stood up.
“And when you return, there’ll be a nice promotion waiting for you.” Jenkins stood, too, and shook his hand. “Goodbye, Warburton. Keep in touch.”
Jenkins watched Warburton leave the room. He was a talented agent, and both Sir Henry and he had him earmarked for great things. Given the Haslam saga, the chap had certainly shown his mettle. Perhaps a luxury sabbatical would ease the pain. He treated himself to a top-up from Sir Henry’s decanter and surveyed his new domain with pleasure.
* * *
Zoe looked at her reflection in the mirror. She tugged at her hair, piled tightly into a French plait by the hairdresser who had come to her rooms at the palace. “Too tight,” she muttered irritably as she attempted to loosen and soften the style. Her makeup was too heavy as well, so she scrubbed it all off and started again. At least her dress—a sea of Givenchy midnight-blue chiffon—was stunning, even if it was not what she would have chosen herself.
“I feel like a doll, being all dressed up,” she whispered miserably to her reflection.
And to cap it all, Art had called her an hour ago to say he was running late at another function. This meant they’d have to rendezvous inside the cinema. Which in turn meant that when she stepped out of the car, she’d have to face the press all alone. And even worse, Jamie had called her, sounding downright miserable. He just wasn’t settling back down at school, finding the jibes of the boys too hard to take.
And besides all that, she had twenty-four hours before she had to say no to Hollywood, and she still hadn’t told Art . . .
“James, Joanna, and Marcus are dead and Simon’s gone!” she shouted, then sank to the floor in despair, thinking back to yesterday and seeing Simon . . .
I’ll miss you too, he’d said.
“Oh God! I bloody love him!” she moaned, knowing she was wallowing in self-pity, when no one in the world would feel anything but envy for her. Yet she currently felt like the loneliest person on Earth . . .
Her mobile rang. Standing up, she saw it was Jamie and grabbed it.
“Hi, darling,” she said as brightly as she could. “How are you?”
“Oh, okay. Just wondered what we were doing for half-term next week?”
“I . . . well, what would you like to do?”
“Dunno. Just get away from school. And England.”
“Okay, darling. Then yes, let’s book something.”
“Can you do that? Now that you’re living at the palace?”
“I . . .” It was a good point. “I’ll find out.”
“Okay. At least Simon can come and collect us, can’t he?”
“Jamie, Simon’s not here anymore.”
“Oh.” Zoe heard the catch in her son’s voice. “I’ll miss him.”
“Yes. So will I. Listen, I’ll talk to Art and see what we can do.”
“Okay,” Jamie repeated, sounding as miserable as she felt. “Love you, Mumma.”
“I love you too. See you next Friday.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
Zoe ended the call and walked to the windows, which overlooked the glorious palace gardens. And longed to open the door, run down God-knew-how-many flights of stairs and along countless corridors covered in priceless rugs, and escape into them. In the past ten days, she’d nearly gone mad with claustrophobia—which sounded ridiculous as the palace was enormous. It had felt like the day when she had been trapped at the Welbeck Street house. Except then, she’d been with Simon, who had made it okay.
How she longed to be beyond those high walls, to be allowed to walk out of her front door and along the road to the shop, alone, to buy a pint of milk. In here, her every wish was the staff’s command—anything she wanted was hers. Except for the freedom to come and go as she chose.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered to herself, and then felt shocked by voicing her feelings for the first time. “I’ll go mad. Oh God, I’ll go mad . . .”
Zoe left the window, then paced up and down the enormous bedroom, trying to think what to do.
Did she love Art enough to sacrifice everything else that she was? Let alone the happiness of her child? What life would it be for him? She was aware after ten days at the palace that the “family” view was that he should be kept well in the background. She’d tried to ask Art what that meant in reality.
“He’s got another eight years at boarding school anyway, darling. And we can sort out the holidays as we go.”
“This is your son,” Zoe had hissed.
There was a knock at her door.
“Coming,” she shouted through it. Stuffing her mobile into the tiny bag that the stylist had chosen to match her dress, Zoe took a deep breath and walked to the door.
* * *
Simon barely made it to the gate on time.
“Can you board now, Mr. Warburton? Your flight is already closing.”
“Of course.” Simon was handing over his boarding pass and passport when he heard his mobile ring.
He looked at the number and saw it was Zoe. He answered immediately. He couldn’t help it.
“Zoe, how are you?”
“Rubbish,” he heard her sob. “I’ve run away.”
“Run away from where?”
“The palace.”
“Why? How . . . ? Where are you?”
“Hiding in a toilet in a café in Soho.”
“You’re doing what?!” Simon could hardly hear her.
“I was on my way to a premiere and told the driver I needed the toilet urgently before I arrived. I can’t do this. I just . . . can’t. Simon, what do I do?”
He ignored the anxious signals of the staff at the boarding gate as he heard her sobs down the line.
“I really don’t know, Zoe. What do you want to do?”
“I want to . . .”
There was a pause on the line, and the woman on the gate mimed slitting her throat as she indicated the door that led to the plane.
“Yes?” he said.
“Oh, Simon, I want to be with you!”
“I . . .” He gulped. “Are you sure?”
“Yes! Why else would I be standing here in a smelly toilet in a dress worth thousands? I . . . love you!”
The woman on the gate shook her head, shrug
ged, and closed the door. Simon smiled at her.
“So,” he continued, “where do you need rescuing from this time?”
She told him.
“Okay,” he said, as he retraced his footsteps through the corridors that led to landside. “Try to find a back entrance—it’s normally through the kitchens—and let me know.”
“I know, and I will. Thank you, Simon.” Zoe grinned into the receiver.
“I should be with you in under an hour. Oh, and by the way . . .”
“Yes?”
“I love you too.”
PAWN TO QUEEN
Promotion of a pawn that reaches its eighth rank to become the most powerful piece on the board: the queen
43
La Paz, Mexico, June 1996
Simon walked into the Cabana Café, its exotic name belying its scruffiness. The streets he had driven through in the taxi had bypassed the scenic boardwalk and the tourist areas and had stopped in a seedier part of the otherwise beautiful town, graffiti sprayed on the wall opposite, a group of young men lolling against it looking for action. But the beach in front of him was stunning, the ocean an aquamarine glimmer behind a stretch of white sand, dotted with a few tourists tanning in the bright sunshine.
He ordered a double espresso from the Mexican sweating behind the bar, then took himself off to a table by the open window.
He glanced around but the only female in the place was a tall blonde with the lithe-limbed, golden-brown body of a Californian. He watched as she slipped off her stool at the bar.
“Anyone sitting with you?” she asked in an American accent as she strolled across to him.
“No, but I’m waiting for someone.”
She sat down, and in a broad Yorkshire accent said, “Yes, Simon, you dozy git. You’re waiting for me!”
Simon was stunned by her transformation. He, who had known her since she was a toddler, would not have recognized her in a million years. The only things left of her past self were her hazel eyes.
They left the café soon after, then walked down to the beach and sat on the sand. She wanted to know everything—as she always had done—in minute detail.
“Was my funeral good?”
“Extremely moving, yes. Everyone was in floods of tears. Including me.”
“I’m glad to know they cared,” she joked. “To be honest, I have to laugh, or else I’d cry.”
“They did care, promise.”
“How were my mum and dad?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“Distraught.”
“Oh God, Simon, I . . .” Her voice cracked and she kicked off her sandals and ground her toes into the sand. “I wish . . .” She shook her head. “I wish I could tell them.”
“Joanna, it was the only way.”
“I know.”
The two of them sat in silence and stared out at the sea.
“How are you . . . surviving?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m managing, just, though it’s pretty hard being a nameless person. I did as you asked and ditched Monica Burrows’s passport and credit cards the minute I arrived in Washington, then made my way down to California and paid that contact you gave me a shedload of money to drive me across the border. I’ve been working in a bar near here for the last couple of weeks, but I’m fast running out of money.”
“Well, at least it got you out of the UK alive.”
“Yes, though part of me has begun to wonder if I’d be better off dead. Christ, this is hard, Simon. I’m trying not to give up, but . . .”
“Come here.” Simon pulled her into his arms and she sobbed out all the anguish she felt. He stroked her hair gently, knowing he’d give anything for it not to have turned out the way it had.
“Sorry, I . . .” Joanna sat up and wiped her eyes roughly with her knuckles. “It’s seeing you that’s done it. I’ll be okay now, promise.”
“God, don’t apologize, Jo. You’ve been incredible, really. I have something for you.” Simon dug in his pocket and produced an envelope. “As promised.”
“Thanks.” Joanna took it and pulled out an American birth certificate, a United States passport, and a card with a number on it. “Margaret Jane Cunningham,” Joanna read. “Born, Michigan 1967 . . . Hey, Simon! You’ve made me a year older! Charmed, I’m sure.”
“Sorry. It was the closest I could come on an ‘off the shelf’ identity-kit basis. You have a social security number there, so that should sort out your work problems.”
“Are you positive it’s all kosher?”
“Joanna, trust me, it’s kosher, but you’ll have to add a photo. I left the plastic open so you could. I’m glad I did, as you now resemble something out of Baywatch. I rather fancy you like that.”
“Well, it remains to be seen if blondes have more fun,” Joanna snorted. “Speaking of blondes, how’s Zoe?”
“Happily ensconced with Jamie in a very comfortable villa in Bel Air. Courtesy of Paramount.”
“What?! She left Art?”
“Yes. Didn’t you read about it?”
“God, no, I’ve been too terrified to even pick up a newspaper in the past few weeks. I kept thinking I’d see my picture on the front and a headline above it saying ‘Wanted!’ ” Joanna gave a short laugh. “I knew Zoe was wavering about Art, though. Was it the offer of the film that finally made her decide?”
“That and, well, something else actually.”
Joanna watched as the familiar hectic blush rose up Simon’s neck. “You mean . . . ?”
He smiled. “Yes. And we’re outrageously happy together.”
“I’m absolutely thrilled for you both. Can your old pal Margaret Cunningham come to the wedding?” Joanna asked him. “Please? No one would recognize me—even you didn’t—”
“Jo, you know the answer to that. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair on Zoe or Jamie. We’ve both learned what a burden keeping a secret can be. Forgive me if I sound harsh, but there it is.”
“I know. I just . . . miss her. And everyone I loved.” Joanna lay back and looked at the blue sky. “Well, thank God this whole dreadful saga has had one happy ending. So many people dead and gone because of it. Poor Alec too.”
“You know what? In a strange sort of way, I think he’d have seen it as a fitting ending to his life. After all, he went to his grave having just uncovered the biggest scandal of the twentieth century. He was a great newshound right to the end.”
“Sorry, Simon, I’m afraid I can’t justify anyone dying because of it.”
“No, of course you can’t.”
“I’m still having nightmares about the evening I ‘died.’ ” Joanna shuddered. “I was absolutely convinced, right up until the very last moment, that you were going to kill me.”
“I absolutely had to make it look real, Jo, to convince Monica Burrows. I needed a witness to call in and say I’d done the dirty deed.”
“All those silly cowboy and Indian games we used to play on the moors when we were kids,” she mused. “ ‘This is my game, we play by my rules,’ and then I had to say, ‘I surrender,’ and you’d say . . .”
“ ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ ” Simon finished for her. “Anyway, thank God for those games. It provided me with the perfect way of warning you to ‘die.’ ”
“When you fired that bullet into Jamie’s bedroom wall, it was real, wasn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” Simon nodded. “I can tell you, even though the next two were blanks, the sweat was pouring off me as I hadn’t had time to go through the usual rigorous procedures. I had to load the gun on the way up the stairs to Jamie’s bedroom. If I hadn’t moved quickly, Monica would have killed you and I couldn’t risk that.”
“So how did you kill her?”
“I’m afraid Monica wasn’t concentrating on her gun when she came over to check your pulse. I whipped it out of her hand and shot her with it before she knew what was happening.”
“God, Simon, she was younger than me . . .”
>
“The fact she was so inexperienced saved your life, Jo.”
Joanna sat up on her elbows and studied Simon. “And to think I ever doubted you. What you did for me that night . . . I can never repay you.”
“Well, I just hope that, when my day of judgment comes, He’ll forgive me. The bottom line was, it was her or you.”
“Was your boss grateful to get hold of his pot of gold after all this time?” Joanna asked.
“Extremely. It may sound stupid, but I actually felt sympathy for him toward the end. He was only doing his job. Trying to protect what he believed in.”
“No, Simon, never, ever could I shed one tear. Think of those who’ve died—Grace, William, Ciara, Ian Simpson, Alec, poor Marcus . . .”
“But it wasn’t him that caused all this in the first place, was it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Well, the old boy died of a massive heart attack the day after I handed him back the letter.”
“Don’t expect me to mourn.”
“I won’t. But the odd thing was, only a couple of hours before you turned up at Welbeck Street, I’d suddenly realized where the letter had been hidden.”
“How come?”
“I was waiting for the duke at York Cottage, to bring him back to London, and I saw a framed sampler on the wall. It was almost identical to the one I’d seen hanging above Jamie’s bed a few weeks earlier. If I’d have got there sooner, then all this could have been avoided.” He leaned back on the sand. “I know how you found out where it was.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. A wily old bird, by all accounts.” Simon’s eyes twinkled.
“Is she okay?”
“I believe so. Safely in America, I hear tell.”
“I’m glad. She’s one hell of a lady,” Joanna said quietly. “I suppose you’ve already thought about the irony of all this? I mean, Zoe’s ex-boyfriend being his namesake?”
“Yes. Weird, isn’t it? The current duke was apparently devastated when Zoe left him . . . history repeating itself, one could say.”
The Royal Secret Page 45