Warlord: An Alex Hawke Novel

by Ted Bell

  Smith slid the zoom button forward, going in for a tight close-up of that famous face.

  Her face aglow after two or three glasses of champagne in the beautiful Ritz Hotel suite with her new lover, the princess looked like a woman who had found a momentary escape from the wreckage of her life. She looked like a survivor, wearied by the fray but determined to find a way out of her well-publicized maze of constant sorrow. An exit from all that, a port in the storm, that’s how she saw her newest lover.

  This new man provided that and more. And, in a fortuitous twist of fate, she’d managed to insert a razor-sharp political dagger into the hearts of those who had caused her enormous suffering. She could only imagine their horror at the notion of a divorced Egyptian playboy as the stepfather of the future King of England. How utterly delicious, even though it would never happen.

  Smith had seen her many moods, of course, both in the flesh and in the media. But tonight he thought she looked extraordinarily relaxed and beautiful. Was it real? he wondered, or just that highly developed art of seduction she’d practiced so assiduously, made manifest?

  Enter the lover. Smith blinked and leaned forward. He found himself gazing curiously at the rather callow male who now entered the frame with an unattractive swagger. The arriviste had acquired the aura of worldwide fame now, but it was only the reflected glory of the shining princess that afforded him this paltry notoriety.

  Her lover came up from behind her, placed his hands on her waist, and nuzzled her neck, kissing her ear, staring at the reflection of the two of them in the mirror.

  “Happy, my darling?” he purred.

  “I miss the boys. But yes.”

  “I got along with them quite well, didn’t you think?”

  She leaned in again to apply more lip gloss. “Wills will be King of England one day. Poor thing. All those dodgy relatives kissing his royal arse.”

  The divorced Egyptian playboy laughed at the exquisite irony of it all. Since he’d met this fabulous woman his life had suddenly, miraculously, taken a serious turn for the better. Imagine. Stepfather to the King of England. That would show the old man what kind of son he had.

  His father owned this hotel. The most famous and expensive hotel in the world. He had stolen it from some Saudi prince whom he well knew never bothered to read the fine print. The Ritz Paris was one more jewel in his father’s crown, one that included Harrods department store in London, among other priceless treasures.

  His father had suffered, however. He was a man who had, to his eternal chagrin, tried to buy his way into London society without success. Expecting a knighthood, instead he had been shunned and humiliated by British Royals and aristocrats for years. But now, finally, he stood at the brink of miraculous revenge.

  His son was about to wed the mother of the future King of England.

  Dodi could almost hear Papa licking his chops somewhere off-stage, flipping through Hello magazine, page after page of his son and the Princess frolicking on the glamorous Riviera. Revenge, on a platter. A dish best savored slowly. Perhaps now his father would take him a bit more seriously. Perhaps even now the tables were turning in favor of the son. Certainly the limelight was his and his alone and he gloried in its glow.

  “I have a little something for you tonight, you know,” Dodi said, nuzzling her neck.

  “Hmm. Not something that comes in a small black velvet box, one hopes?”

  “It might just,” he said, ignoring the small gibe. Was she teasing him? Leading him on? He could never tell with women, especially this one. After all his dead-end romances, here was a woman who defined “high maintenance.” But, God, she was worth it. When first he’d set his sights on her, he’d felt adrift, never knowing what to say or how to react to anything she said or did. But it was different now.

  Now he was beginning in his small way to understand his much wiser father’s counsel during this courtship, his father’s perception of what made her tick: Listen, my son. Her thoughts travel no straight rational line, he had said. She has an active but reckless and whimsical mind that rushes to sudden violent conclusions; a mind that is touched by a certain kind of brilliance, but a brilliance that zigzagged as haphazardly and uselessly as lightning.

  He had not understood at the time of the lesson. Now, as he was beginning to see, he felt his confidence growing.

  She pulled away from him, picking up her handbag and giving him that shy smile from beneath her lashes. “No baubles now. Perhaps later. At your apartment. I want to get out of here. Away from all these horrible people.”

  He said nothing, just quietly grasped the small velvet box in the pocket of his leather jacket. A half hour earlier, he’d crossed the Place Vendôme to see his friend the famous jeweler, Alberto Repossi. Alberto had a star-shaped ring with five diamonds for sale, a quarter of a million dollars. It was from the Dis-Moi Oui collection: “Tell me yes.”

  Dodi bought it on the spot, knowing his father would gladly pick up the tab.

  ON THE SCREEN, SMITH COULD see that the false knight in his faux shining armor was clearly agitated. His cell phone chimed, and he turned away from the Princess, scowling angrily. He began pacing back and forth rapidly, a hungry tiger in a gilded cage. He had his mobile pressed tight to his ear, and he was berating one or the other of his two personal bodyguards, Trevor and Kez. He was speaking in a whisper, but the powerful microphone above his head picked up every word.

  Grabbing his champagne glass, Dodi now moved over to the nearest bedroom window, peering down into the twinkling darkness of the Place Vendôme, angrily shaking his head at the snarling packs of paparazzi, waiting like hungry wolves for a bit of fresh meat.

  Smith leaned forward, eyes on the monitor, adjusting the volume in his earphones, concentrating on the young man’s every word. This operatic fantasy was unfolding rapidly now, and it had all the elements of high drama. The fat lady was finally stepping out of the shadows, ready to sing for the lovely swan peering once more into her beloved mirror.

  “Listen up, Trevor,” Dodi said angrily to his primary bodyguard. “I don’t give a good fucking damn about your security protocols right now, right? We’re out of here and Henri’s driving. Okay? Back to my apartment in the Rue Arsene Houssaye, understand me? It’s a bloody madhouse out front. A hundred paparazzi and tourists at least! I’m looking at this bedlam right now, for God’s sake, and I’m not putting the Princess through it again. We’ll use the caravan already out front as decoys. Call Henri immediately and lay on another Mercedes at the rear. Tell Ritz Security I want a car down there now! Rue Cambon entrance, tout de suite!”

  He listened a few moments more, made a disgusted face at the phone, and said, “My father has already approved this move, so don’t give me any more of your shit. If either you or Kez want to ride up front with Henri, fine. But one of you only, understand me? And no second car following us. It’s only a mile and a half to my bloody apartment, for God’s sake. It is not a problem. Got it? Good.”

  Dodi slammed the phone off on his thigh and dropped it into a pocket of his suede jacket. Catching Diana’s eye in the mirror, he smiled easily at her and said, “All taken care of, darling. Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Two seconds,” Diana said.

  He raised the glass of wine to her and downed it in a single draught. Pulling the bottle of vintage Roederer Cristal from the silver ice bucket, he saw that it was empty. Time for another? No. It was getting late. There was chilled white wine and caviar waiting for them at his apartment. Time to go.

  Dodi turned back to the window and smiled at the thought of how this magical evening would end. They’d had a wonderful few days together aboard his father’s yacht, Jonikal, cruising off the French and Italian Riviera. Diana seemed truly happy now, despite the fact that Trevor and Kez had made a dog’s breakfast of their earlier arrival at the Ritz. Cameras jammed in her face, besieged by rude questions, Diana had fled inside the hotel in tears.

  And she’d clearly been unimpressed with the Villa Windso
r. A lovely mansion in Paris, formerly the home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, a house his father had strongly hinted would be his, should he and Diana wed. For the first time in his life, Dodi sensed his powerful father’s approval at the direction his life was taking.

  You, my handsome son, will be stepfather to the two heirs to the throne of England…then we shall reign.

  Those were the exact words his father had whispered to him as they had stood at the stern rail of the yacht Jonikal, watching Diana and her two sons speeding around and around the yacht on Kawasaki wave riders.

  Dodi patted his pocket. He wanted to give her the ring tonight. But she was right. Not here in this hotel suite owned like everything else by his father, but in the private luxury of his own Paris apartment. He was his own man now, or would be soon, anyway.

  Smith saw Dodi look at his watch and then looked at his own.

  It was exactly 11:37 p.m.

  THIRTY-SIX

  SMITH HAD ONLY THIS MORNING TAKEN the tiny bedroom on the fifth-floor rear at the Ritz. Siberia under normal circumstances, but perfect for his needs. Earlier that day, upon learning of Dodi’s plans from his own agents on the ground at Le Bourget airfield in Paris, he’d had his engineer, Amir, set up this surveillance equipment. First he tapped into the hotel’s closed-circuit TV system, forty-three cameras in all, which provided views both inside the hotel and at the front and rear entrances.

  He had then powered up the carefully hidden minicams and microphones his man had installed in the hotel’s Imperial Suite. He had a very expensive Ritz engineer on his private payroll and the man had done an excellent job of providing total coverage inside the suite and throughout the hotel.

  He reached out and toggled a switch, quickly clicking through various camera viewpoints until he found what he wanted. He now saw what Dodi had been so upset about: the front entrance to the hotel. A frantic pack of paparazzi lay in wait, at least a hundred or more, even now jostling one another for position.

  Since the rumors of a Dodi-Diana romance had surfaced days earlier, journalists and photographers had descended on Paris from all over Europe. Each one hoped to get the “money shot,” a photograph that could fetch over a million pounds. He could see their riotous mood, rabid dogs going in for the kill.

  Yes, he could see this turning very ugly the moment the famous face appeared at the entrance.

  There were rumors Diana was pregnant. If only one of these thugs could get a shot of a small bulge in that sleek figure—the baby bump was worth millions.

  Two cars were parked out front, a Ritz black Mercedes stretch limousine and Dodi’s personal black Range Rover, drivers already behind the wheels. Henri Paul, the Ritz’s chief of security, kept emerging from the lobby, shouting to the paparazzi, “Won’t be long now, boys! She’ll be out in a minute or two, so, gentlemen, start your shutters!”

  Eyes flashing like shining marbles in the flickering blue video light, Smith adjusted his lip mike. He was looking at the pack of snarling motorbikes, photographers clambering onto the pillion seats behind the drivers. On the periphery of the crowd, in the shadow of Napoleon’s Column, was a blue-and-white BMW K1300S motorcycle.

  It was essential equipment tonight, the most powerful and fastest production bike in the world. “Omar,” he said into his lip mike and saw the man astride the BMW turn his head instinctively toward the top floor of the hotel.

  “Sir?”

  “Change of plans.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “They’re going to use the rear entrance. Rue Cambon.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Hotel Mercedes, standard. That means non–armor plated, no blackout windows.”

  “Perfect. I’m on my way.”

  He saw the BMW accelerate away, slowly so as not to attract too much attention, leaving the square.

  Smith toggled back to the Imperial Suite. Dodi, now dressed in jeans, a leather shirt that hung outside, and cowboy boots, was waiting for Diana at the bedroom door.

  “You look so beautiful tonight. I am so lucky.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Diana laughed. “I look beautiful every night. Everyone says so, or hadn’t you heard?”

  She giggled and took his hand, following him out into the living room beyond with a toss of her short blond hair, leaving her cares behind her in the mirror, determined to have fun.

  Smith switched off his video equipment and removed his headset. Standing, he grabbed a black nylon camera bag and slung it over his shoulder. He donned a motorcycle helmet and pulled the goggles down over his eyes. The invisible man once more. Then he headed for the door. He deliberately left it unlocked because his engineer would be here momentarily to remove everything, erasing every trace of his presence.

  His room, being one of the least expensive in the hotel, was conveniently located next to the service stairway. It was the work of a moment to descend to the ground floor and exit the hotel at the rear.

  DIANA AND DODI LEFT THE IMPERIAL SUITE at 12:14 A.M. They descended the stairs to the back entrance of the Ritz, waiting for the Mercedes just inside a narrow service corridor. Dodi ordered Trevor outside to watch for the hotel limousine and chatted with his acting head of security, Henri Paul, who would be driving them to the apartment.

  “Car’s here,” Trevor said five minutes later, sticking his head inside the door.

  The bodyguard clearly wasn’t happy. This bloody backup car, a Mercedes S280, had no bulletproof armor. Worst of all, it did not have darkened windows. On top of that, Dodi’s designated driver, the Ritz head of security, Henri Paul, seemed to have spent a little extra time in the bar.

  The whole bleeding thing was totally unprofessional. A cock-up of major proportions just waiting to happen, and there was precious little he could do about it. For not the first time, he decided he’d soon tell Mr. Dodi Fayed to kiss his bloody arse good-bye. He’d never been a generous boss, never offered a kind word or a congratulatory smile. And now that she’d come into his life, well—

  Dodi placed his hand gently at the small of Diana’s back and ushered her outside to the waiting sedan. Henri took the keys from the hotel driver and slid behind the wheel. A few suspicious paparazzi who had sniffed out the ruse now stepped out of the shadows and flashbulbs pierced the darkness. Diana lowered her eyes and shielded her face with her right hand as Trevor quickly ushered his two charges into the backseat, then climbed into the front next to Henri Paul.

  Before starting the car, Henri turned and smiled at Dodi. “Managed to give most of those rotten buggers the slip this time, eh, boss?”

  Boss? Dodi simply stared at him, trying to suppress his anger. This was not the way an employee addressed him, not in front of the Princess of Wales, certainly. For the first time, it occurred to him that Henri seemed a bit off. He looked over at Trevor and mimed swigging a bottle, nodding his head toward Henri.

  Trevor nodded his head yes, but he certainly didn’t seem decisive about it. He was angry, though, angry at everybody. Dodi was breaking all the rules, and his security team was not happy about it. For the first time in weeks, Dodi felt a ripple of apprehension wash over him.

  “You’re quite sure you’re all right to drive, Henri?” he demanded of the driver.

  “Certainly, sir. No problem at all. Have you home in five.”

  Dodi slumped back in his seat, taking Diana’s hand and pulling her toward him. He was surrounded by idiots, but now was not the time to let another staff row spoil what he desperately hoped would be the most important evening of his life.

  Trevor immediately got on his radio and gave Kez, in the originally booked hotel Mercedes at the front entrance, the heads-up that they were about to move. Two minutes later, the Mercedes and the Range Rover sped away from the front entrance on the Place Vendôme. Dodi’s ruse had quickly unraveled. At that point, most of the paparazzi were already en route around back to the Rue Cambon entrance where, at 12:20, Henri Paul left the flashbulbs popping and pulled away from the back entrance, acce
lerating rapidly up to speed.

  “Seat belts, please,” Trevor said over his shoulder. Neither of them paid him any mind. Sod it all, he said to himself, not even bothering to fasten his own. It was only a mile-and-a-half journey. Five minutes, tops.

  Protocols had long ago gone out the window, he fumed privately. His professionalism had been compromised through no fault of his own, and he’d bloody well had it with this lot.

  Neither Trevor nor anyone else noticed a large, blue-and-white BMW motorcycle following them a few hundred yards back.

  Trevor heard Dodi talking to Diana in the dark backseat of the Mercedes. “Only a few minutes, darling, and we’ll be home,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  HENRI PAUL SPED UP THE ONE-WAY Rue Cambon, then swung the big car right onto the Rue de Rivoli, headed for the Place de la Concorde. He continued south along the west side of the square past Cleopatra’s Needle, almost all the way to the Seine. Ignoring red lights, he swung the car right onto the dual freeway called the Cours la Reine, on a heading parallel to the Seine. Almost immediately, they entered a series of tunnels, and Henri increased his speed, the needle moving past one hundred on the speedometer.

  “Why the hell are you going this way?” Trevor demanded of the driver, annoyed. This route was much longer than the direct route up the Champs-Elysées, and he didn’t want his party to spend one second longer in this bleeding car than was absolutely necessary.

  “Give the bastards the slip, that’s why,” Henri muttered, eyes on the rearview mirror. “None of them will be expecting us to take this route.”

  “Christ,” Trevor said under his breath, thinking, Right, now we’ve really gone off the bloody charts. And if nobody gives a shit anymore, then neither do I.

  He suddenly caught sight of a big motorcycle gaining ground in the rearview mirror. Henri Paul had seen it, too, and he was speeding up. At least the bastard on their tail wouldn’t get any good photos, Trevor thought. It was dark inside the tunnels and the unlighted interior of the car would cause exterior reflections on the clear windows, too many to get any kind of a decent shot of the occupants, now giggling over something in the backseat.