Million Eyes

by C. R. Berry

  “It is not as it seems. Open it. Open it to the last page of text.”

  Sebastien opened the book to the last few pages. He frowned. They were blank. He went backwards through the pages – all blank.

  He looked at George. “I – I don’t understa –”

  “Keep going.”

  Sebastien continued flicking backwards through the pages with his thumb, eventually ending up at a page of text, less than two thirds in. He quickly thumbed through the first two thirds – looked like there was text on all of those. What a waste of paper!

  “Read the last page.”

  Sebastien huffed and flicked to the last page of text.

  George Langdon: Are you still a waiter at the Ritz?

  Sebastien Touchard: Yes. Why?

  George Langdon: Diana. Princess Diana. She’s staying there tonight, isn’t she.

  Sebastien Touchard: Yes. She and Dodi Fayed are due to arrive sometime after four.

  George Langdon: Are you working tonight?

  Sebastien Touchard: Yes. My shift starts at seven. George, enough with the questions. What is this about?

  George Langdon: I need you to give her something.

  Sebastien blinked hard several times and shook his head. Not possible. Simply not possible.

  He looked at George, whose eyes were wide and staring, thick purple shadows hanging beneath them.

  Retraining his eyes on the page, Sebastien hoped he’d imagined what he’d just seen.

  Sebastien Touchard: Princess Diana?

  George Langdon: Yes.

  Sebastien Touchard: What? [19-second pause.] You want me to give this to the Princess of Wales?

  Damn. He hadn’t. He looked up. “How can this be possible?”

  George nodded to the book, and Sebastien’s eyes were back on the page.

  His words. The words he’d just spoken… were typing themselves out.

  It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

  And yet, as Sebastien watched, blinking frenziedly, the words Sebastien Touchard: How can this be possible? were appearing on the page, letter by letter, beneath George’s instruction to Read the last page.

  Magic? What else could it be?

  “It’s not a book about computer-aided timetabling for railways,” said George. “That’s merely a disguise. It’s a transcription device. One that is way more advanced than any technology that we have – or at least know about – today. It instantly transcribes any conversation in its proximity and can even identify the speakers.”

  Sebastien glanced at the page, saw that George’s words were typing themselves onto the page, slammed it shut and placed it on the lamp table next to him. That’s quite enough of that madness.

  He stood up, walked over to his drinks cabinet, and poured himself a cognac. He gestured with the bottle to ask George if he wanted one. George shook his head.

  Sitting back down, Sebastien asked, “Where did you get it?”

  “My grandfather’s attic. He died last month and my mother and I decided to do a clear-out. There was a load of stuff up there belonging to my great-grandfather that nobody had ever gone through, including some items that he’d collected – and kept – from when he was a tosher.”

  Sebastien frowned. “A tosher?”

  “It’s an old English word for a scavenger in Victorian times. Toshers would rifle through the muck in London’s sewers, looking for valuables that had been washed down from the streets above that they could sell.”

  “So you’re saying your great-grandfather found the book in the sewer?”

  “I can’t be certain. My mother had never seen it before, and doesn’t recall my grandfather – or great-grandfather – ever mentioning it. My great-grandfather was illiterate but I presume he at least saw that the book was somehow capable of writing itself. I suspect that’s the reason he kept it, rather than selling it.”

  “But that’s… surely that must’ve been over a hundred years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re saying the Victorians were secretly more advanced than we are today?”

  “No. I’m not saying that.”

  “I’m confused.”

  George paused, leaned forwards, took a breath and said with a grave look, “Here is where it gets complicated.”

  Sebastien swallowed. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear this or not. “I’m listening.”

  “The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems is a real book. Jeremy Jennings is a real author.”

  “Okay…”

  “The book was published in 1995. This device, disguised as a real book from 1995, was discovered by my great-grandfather a hundred years before it could’ve been.”

  Sebastien did a fast shake of the head. “George, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it’s travelled back in time. From the future.”

  “What? Don’t talk nonsense.”

  George sat back in his chair. “Sebastien, if you can think of another explanation, I’m all ears.”

  He had nothing.

  George nodded. “As I thought. I actually think its travels extend much further back in time than the 19th century. There are conversations in that book going back to the 12th century. I’ve read them all. Most are former protectors of the book talking about its importance. But not because of its power. Because of the very first conversation the book recorded.”

  “What conversation?”

  “Look for yourself. Read the first few pages and you’ll see why I’ve come here so urgently.”

  Sebastien picked up the book from the lamp table and, reluctantly, opened it to the first transcription.

  Looking up, “Who are these people?”

  George shrugged slightly, “I don’t know.”

  Sebastien continued reading, stomach rolling with dread as the conversation between the two speakers took a startling turn. It became clear why George wanted him to give it to the Princess of Wales.

  Sebastien felt his heart start to race. “This can’t be real…” he said, struggling to wrap his mind around the enormity of it.

  “I’m afraid it’s very real,” said George. “Million Eyes have infected my country. They have to be stopped – now.”

  Sebastien shut the book and downed his cognac. It was going to be a long day.

  23

  Sebastien got to the Ritz early – 6.30pm – in the hope that he could speak with Princess Diana before his shift started. He had to carve through flocks of paparazzi on the Place Vendôme, cameras trained on the Imperial Suite on the first floor where Diana and Dodi were lodged, waiting like vultures for the princess to risk a peek through the damask curtains.

  He soon learned that preparations were being made for Diana and Dodi to leave again, which meant there was no time or opportunity for Sebastien to meet with her.

  “Are they due to be coming back?” Sebastien asked the night duty manager, Thierry Rocher. Rumour had it they’d gone to Dodi’s apartment near the Arc de Triomphe, but nobody in the kitchens knew where they were due to be spending the night.

  Sebastien got a dismissive – “What’s that got to do with you? Get back to work” – and was left to stew over the possibility that he’d missed his chance.

  Fortunately they did return. Ever-increasing numbers of paparazzi had forced the couple to cancel their dinner plans and head back to the Ritz, so they were at least going to eat here; whether they were going to stay the night was still unclear.

  Shortly before 10pm, looking stressed and beleaguered, Diana and Dodi entered the l’Espadon Restaurant where Sebastien was serving.

  But he couldn’t just go up to her in the middle of the restaurant, not with dozens of people already staring at her. He’d have to wait.

  As it turned out, they were only in the restaurant for a few minutes. After serving another table’s drinks, Sebastien looked over and saw that theirs was empty. He asked Matthieu, the waiter who’d attended them, where they’d gone. Matthieu said the princess l
ooked upset, probably because everyone in the restaurant was looking at her, and had asked for their dinner to be served in the Imperial Suite. Sebastien wasn’t surprised. He’d hate to be the subject of so much attention, so many gossipy eyes. Then again, if you marry a member of the Royal Family…

  As soon as the l’Espadon Restaurant began quietening down, Sebastien ducked out, hoping his absence wouldn’t get noticed by the head waiter, and made his way up the grand staircase to the Imperial Suite. Heart pounding, sweat collecting beneath his collar, he took a deep breath and knocked at the door of the suite.

  The door opened and Diana greeted Sebastien with a smile so warm and radiant it momentarily put him at ease. Her beauty was mesmerising – striking blue eyes, silk-smooth pink cheeks, shining blonde hair coiffed and preened to perfection like always. She looked far cheerier than she did in the restaurant earlier, like she’d just been laughing.

  And now Sebastien was about to ruin it all.

  Returning her smile, Sebastien bowed and said, “Good evening, Your Royal Highness. My apologies for disturbing you so late.”

  “That’s quite all right,” she replied in that famously soft voice of hers. “But ‘madame’ is fine. The Germans took the HRH off me some time ago.” She laughed, briefly.

  Sebastien knew Diana’s relations with the Royal Family were on the frosty side. Had been since her divorce from Prince Charles.

  “I’m a waiter here, madame. My name is Sebastien Touchard.”

  Smile widening, Diana did a slow blink, nodding, “We’re fine, thank you. Dinner was wonderful albeit late. But that’s not the hotel’s fault.”

  She thought his attendance was a courtesy. Oh, how he wished it was.

  “Forgive me, madame, but I am here for a different reason.”

  “Oh?”

  “It is, I fear, a matter of grave importance.”

  The brightness on Diana’s face dimmed. She glanced over her shoulder and, in a moment, Dodi Fayed had joined her at the door.

  “May I come in?” said Sebastien.

  “What is this about?” said Dodi.

  Sebastien glanced around, checking that the small carpeted foyer he was standing in was clear. It was but he lowered his voice regardless, saying, “Million Eyes, sir. It is about the computer company, Million Eyes.”

  Diana frowned. “What about them?”

  “It would be best if I came in for a moment. I have something I need to show you.”

  “This is highly irregular, Mr Touchard,” said Diana. “Where is Claude Roulet?”

  Claude Roulet was assistant to the president of the Ritz and had been attending to Diana and Dodi’s needs throughout the day. He had no idea Sebastien was here.

  “Monsieur Roulet is engaged presently,” Sebastien lied, “but I would be happy to fetch him for you. If I might just have a moment of your time before I do.”

  Dodi shook his head. “Absolutely not. Get out of here.”

  Sebastien swallowed hard, chest heaving, cold beads of sweat trickling down his lower back. “Forgive me, sir, but it is the princess’s time I require, not yours.”

  Diana’s eyes widened at Sebastien’s boldness, which surprised even him. But then, he had no choice but to stand his ground. He couldn’t leave till he’d given Diana the book.

  “And what if I refuse?” said Diana, eyes shining with anger.

  Sebastien shook his head. “Please, madame, you mustn’t. They are planning something terrible.”

  Her expression instantly softened to worry. “What do you mean?”

  “Let me come in. You have to see it for yourself.”

  Dodi shot forwards, shoulders hunched aggressively. Sebastien thought for a moment that the hot-headed Egyptian was going to hit him. “Who the hell do you think you are, you little – !”

  Diana put her hand on his shoulder. “Dodi, don’t.” Dodi pulled back reluctantly and Diana stepped aside, allowing Sebastien to pass and enter the room. She nodded to Dodi, “Close the door, please, Dodi.” Despite his incredulous frown, Dodi did as asked. Diana looked at Sebastien, “You have five minutes, Mr Touchard. Tell me what this is about.”

  Sebastien unbuttoned his jacket, reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the transcription device. “This, madame,” he said, handing it to Diana.

  Diana read the title, “The History of Computer-Aid –”

  “The title is not relevant. It is not really a book. It is merely disguised as one.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Please, madame, open it to the last page of text.”

  He waited for Diana to find it, then watched the colour drain from her cheeks as she read a transcription of the conversation they’d literally just had.

  “What is this?” she said quietly, looking up.

  “A transcription device,” Sebastien replied. “From the future.”

  Diana retrained her eyes on the page, saw their just-spoken words typing themselves out, and cupped her hand over her mouth in dismay.

  “What the hell are you going on about?” said Dodi, and Diana handed him the book, open.

  He shook his head. “What!”

  “There are conversations in that book going back centuries. But not just… back.”

  “Do not speak to me in riddles, Mr Touchard,” said Diana firmly.

  “Forgive me, madame. Open the book to the first transcription, the first conversation it recorded, and you’ll understand why I’m here.”

  Diana and Dodi read it together, both going paler by the second, Diana clutching her chest.

  Afterwards, Dodi slammed the book shut and blared, “What kind of sick joke is this?”

  “Sir, if this was a joke, do you really think I – a waiter – would be capable of it?”

  Dodi looked at the princess. “Diana, this has to be a trick. Has to be!”

  Diana didn’t respond. She looked dazed and blinked several times. A moment later, “Mr Touchard, where did you get this?”

  Sebastien explained how his English friend, George Langdon, had brought the book to him just hours ago, how it was recovered from London’s sewers by George’s great-grandfather in the late 19th century.

  Diana sat down in one of several duck egg blue Louis XVI armchairs that graced the Imperial Suite, rubbing her hands together nervously.

  Sebastien approached her. “You should act quickly, madame.”

  Diana looked at him, a mix of confusion and anguish on her face. Then she looked at Dodi. “He’s right, Dodi. We should go. Now.”

  “Darling, it’s a trick,” said Dodi irately. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Neither of us is qualified to determine that, Dodi. A threat has been brought to our attention and we need to act on it.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “I have to get this book to the Queen. What happens next is up to her. Dodi, please arrange for a private plane to take me to Balmoral tonight.”

  Sebastien had seen it on the news. Balmoral Castle in Scotland was where the Queen and the rest of the Royals, including Diana’s sons, Princes William and Harry, were spending their summer holiday.

  “You’re serious?” said Dodi. “Tonight?”

  “Yes,” said Diana, more sharply this time. “You read what was in that book. Just arrange this for me, will you?”

  Dodi huffed, red-faced, “Fine. So much for salvaging the last night of our holiday.”

  As Dodi went to make a call from the Imperial Suite phone, Diana looked at Sebastien. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr Touchard.”

  That was his cue to go. He’d discharged his burden. It was in her hands now.

  He bowed and turned to leave. Stopping at the door, he said, “Be careful, madame.”

  Diana gave him an uncertain smile, and he left.

  Sebastien’s mind was spinning from the moment he left the Imperial Suite to the moment he got home later than night. His encounter with Princess Diana was replaying over and over like a TV commercial you can’t bl
ock out. He wondered if she was already on a plane to Balmoral with the book, what the Queen would do when she saw it, what would become of Million Eyes once their treason was revealed.

  He poured a cognac to help him sleep and took it into the bedroom. Just as he started to undress, there was a knock at the door.

  Sebastien glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. Who on earth…?

  He approached the door, tentatively, and looked through the peephole. It was Frederic, the night manager for the building. Had something happened?

  He opened the door. Before he could say a word, the right side of Frederic’s head exploded in a red mist. So quiet. The gun was silent as air and Frederic’s head blasting open made barely a hiss.

  Frederic fell like a sack of meat and Sebastien’s eyes were on the gun, now pointed square at his head.

  His killer wore black, he thought – the last he ever had.

  24

  By midnight the number of paparazzi outside the front of the Ritz had doubled. Sporadic appearances from Diana and Dodi’s bodyguards, Kes Wingfield and Trevor Rees-Jones, their chauffeur, Philippe Dourneau, and the Ritz’s deputy head of security, Henri Paul, had given the paparazzi a sense that the couple would soon be emerging. This was, of course, what they were supposed to think.

  With the arrangements almost in place, Henri Paul took a moment to slip into a restroom on the ground floor of the hotel, locking the main door behind him. He took out a silk handkerchief to dab the sweat on his face, leant against the mosaic-tiled wall and stared at the ceiling, taking slow, steady breaths.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit….”

  Henri took out his mobile phone and, hands shaking, called ‘Jane’.

  “Mr Paul, do you have an update?”

  Henri opened his mouth but swallowed his words. He paused, took a deep breath and said, finally, “Y-yes. Everyone is where you said they would be. Diana and Dodi returned to the hotel and have now decided to leave again – as you predicted.”