Secret Shepherd

by James Osborne

  Anne stood.

  “Where are you going?” Agnes demanded.

  “Home,” Anne replied calmly. “I’m always there when my loving and loyal husband gets home.”

  Anne grabbed her purse and walked out the door. As she got into her car, she thought.

  Mean spirited. That’s what she is... self-centered and mean spirited! My own mother! How could she? I never would have imagined!

  Anne drove her car down the long-curved driveway through the elegantly manicured gardens of her parents’ estate, out the gates and onto the street. This had been her home for many years. It occurred to Anne that she might not be visiting it again for a very long time.

  She guided her car unsteadily around the corner and pulled to the curb beside a tall hedge. A huge sense of loss seized her emotions. Anne covered her face and cried like she had not cried since learning that her first husband had been killed in Iraq.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lord’s Library

  Parliament Buildings

  London, UK

  “Good morning, Lord Winston.”

  The woman looked up from her desk.

  Paul sensed uncertainty, perhaps even caution, but she was pleasant enough. He was surprised that she knew who he was.

  “Good morning,” he replied.

  “My name is Marion,” the woman added. “How may I help you today, Milord?”

  “Since you know my name,” Paul said. “I expect you will know this is my first visit.”

  “Yes, Milord,” Marion said. She displayed no emotion.

  Paul had arrived feeling guilty. He’d been attending the House of Lords for two years, but this was his first visit to the library with its immense research resources. Marion’s cool reception left him feeling like an interloper.

  “For today, I just want to have a look around,” he said. “Do a bit of browsing... get familiar. Can you direct me to shelves where I’ll find material on the House of Lords’ legal foundations and history? My office has some reference works but I’d like to learn more.”

  “Yes, of course, Milord,” Marion said with an air of professional detachment.

  She handed him a guide map, and wrote down volume numbers and directions to find specific books in the multiple rooms that housed the sixty-thousand-volume collection.

  An hour later, Paul was seated at a desk in the Truro Room leafing through reference books when his acute hearing picked up whispers in the adjacent Queen’s Room where he’d met Marion earlier.

  “Is anyone here?” a male voice had whispered.

  “Shush!” a female voice whispered back urgently. “Keep your voice down. He might hear you.”

  Paul was certain the voice was Marion’s.

  “We’d better find another place for this,” the male voice whispered. “Will he be coming here regularly?”

  “How should I know?” Marion replied. More loudly, she said: “Oh, good morning, sir.” The tone was contrived. “How may I help you?”

  “Excuse me, miss,” the male voice said, also artificial and louder than necessary. “I must be in the wrong place. I’ll be on my way. Cheers.”

  They sound like kids in a school play, Paul thought, amused by the exchange.

  During the conversation, Paul had got up and walked around the Truro Room as if looking for something on an upper shelf. His peripheral vision had spotted two male figures, both in their early thirties, standing beside Marion’s workstation. He was certain he saw Marion slip an envelope into a book and hand it to one of the men. She kissed him quickly on the mouth.

  Paul thumbed through a book to pass a few more minutes, before heading for his office in Westland Place.

  ***

  “Unusual behavior, for certain,” Richard said on the phone. “When are you going back to the library?”

  “Tomorrow,” Paul said. “I’ve asked Ken to run a background check on Marion. Funny thing. I’m certain I was followed on my way back to the office. Just a sense... can’t give you any specifics, and it wasn’t my bodyguard.”

  “If you were followed, it wasn’t our guys,” Richard said. “It’s not likely to be anyone from Scotland Yard either.”

  “I’ll ask Ken,” Paul said.

  He hung up and dialed Chief Superintendent Hagerman’s secure line.

  After Paul briefed him, Hagerman said: “If you were followed, Paul it wasn’t from here. Budget cuts. We’re not shadowing you in and around Westminster. My apologies.”

  “None needed, Ken,” Paul replied.

  “As you know, Paul, Scotland Yard is responsible for the security of the Royal Family and their extended family, as well as MP’s and the Peerage,” Ken said. “We get short staffed occasionally. We have some people assigned to the ongoing surveillance of Agnes Meriwether and to the areas around the Palace of Westminster. I’ll ask them to take note of your comings and goings... see if you’ve acquired a tail.”

  The double meaning of the comment prompted a mental image that tickled Paul’s well-developed sense of humor. He welcomed the levity.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Peckham Borough

  London, UK

  “That guy made me. I’m fucking sure of it!”

  Kazem Mehregan was in a cafe just off Peckham High Street with two other young men.

  “I doubt he saw you,” Ahmed Mousavi told the stylishly dressed leader of The Peckham Boys. “You said the guy just walked past the restaurant. How do you figure he made you?”

  “I saw him!” Mehregan insisted, straightening the collar of his new shirt and pulling at the cuff-linked sleeves peeking out from the arms of his Armani sports jacket. “He looked in the window. I saw him. He knows me from The Met; I saw him there when those pricks arrested all of us after you screwed up robbing him. And he sure as hell knows the woman with me... his mother-in-law for fuck sake.”

  “You’re shitting me!” Ahmed said.

  “Naw, I’ve been showing her and those big shot friends of hers some fun from time to time for almost a year now. I’m getting some bloody useful connections from those high-and-mighty society bitches.”

  “What now?” said Izad Rajavi, the lone employee of the cafe owned by the gang. They’d put up a ‘closed’ sign. Business didn’t matter; its main purpose was drug transactions.

  “If he made you, then we gotta kill the fucker right away!” Izad said. “Don’t forget there’s a $50,000 bounty on him whether we hit him now or later.”

  “Don’t be in such a frigging hurry!” Ahmed said. “You told us, Kazem. You said our orders from the syndicate were to keep an eye on him for now. That’s all... to watch what he does... then find the best time and place to kill him and his family, so no one can trace it back to us. You want to blow that and all four bounties?”

  “How come you’re defending him?” Mehregan said. “Hell, he got you arrested and he screwed up all of our operations. Maybe he sent you back to spy on us.”

  “Bugger you!” Ahmed said. “What the hell would I do that for? The Peckham Boys is the only home I got.”

  “Don’t you bloody well forget that,” Mehregan said. “And don’t forget either who got you arrested... we’re gonna get even for that and for everything!”

  “Yeah, well, that’s true,” Ahmed said. “But we’d better not get careless. If we want those bounties, we have to do it exactly like we’re supposed to do, right?”

  “Don’t you fuckin’ tell me what the fuck I can and can’t do,” Mehregan said, a menacing look in his eyes.

  Ahmed glared back.

  “What about the package?” Rajavi added, looking intently at Ahmed. “That prick’s gotta know where it is. We’ve gotta get it before we kill him. You’re gonna help us get it.”

  “How the hell should I know where it is?” Ahmed replied. “The bastard beat the shit outta me before I could check his place out... told me he didn’t know what the hell I was talkin’ about. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe we got shit info. What’s in that package anyway?”<
br />
  “You don’t fuckin’ need to know!” Mehregan barked back, glaring at him. His eyes were threatening as he absentmindedly adjusted a decorative handkerchief in the breast pocket of his new sport coat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Westland Place

  “Hi there, Ben!” Paul said into his cell phone. “What a nice surprise. I was about to call you! How the hell are you?”

  “Hi Paul,” his boyhood friend, Ben Rodriguez, replied. “Thought you’d want to know you’re famous here in Colorado… again. But this time you’re not going to like it much.”

  “What do you mean, Ben?” Paul said, anticipating the reply.

  “You’re all over the local news Paul... in the Gazette and the Independent,” Ben replied. “And on radio and TV.”

  Paul’s boyhood friend was calling from the Rodriguez ranch, the location years ago of the infamous party he’d staged for Paul.

  “Yup, Pamela Milliken is a front-page sensation,” Ben said.

  Paul’s anger rose at the thought of Pamela denigrating his family’s honorable name. A wave of foreboding swept over him.

  “She accused you at a press conference yesterday of being the biological father of her six-year-old daughter, Paul. All the news media—print, radio, TV—they’re all carrying stories. She’s claiming her daughter is the heir to your vice-regal title and fortune.”

  “Damn it all!” Paul said. “Why the hell didn’t any of those reporters call me for my side of the story? I’d have put them straight! This is utter bullshit and she bloody well knows it!”

  “So do I, Paul,” Ben said. “What’s more, she was on the talk shows—both radio and TV—spreading that crap. Had a scummy-looking lawyer with her. I thought you should know right away.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said. “Shit!”

  It gave him some comfort that his parents hadn’t lived to witness the scandal.

  “Look, Ben,” Paul said. “I can’t get back there for a while. As you know, our baby’s due any day. I intend to be right here with Anne.”

  “Of course,” Ben said. “Look, buddy, I’ll get our old group to monitor the media and find out what else Pamela may be up to around town.”

  “I really appreciate it,” Paul said. “I’m going to ask my attorney to file an injunction against her and request the court to order a paternity test. You remember Walter Stewart? He was in high school with us. I’ll give him your name as a contact, if you’re okay with that.”

  “Of course,” Ben said. “I’m happy to help you in whatever way I can.”

  “Thanks, my friend,” Paul said. “My lawyer here in the UK is concerned that in today’s social climate a scandal like this might force me to resign from the House of Lords. My ancestors have held the seat for hundreds of years. Hate to see that happen over a false accusation.”

  “I’m afraid there’s even more bad news,” Ben added.

  “You mean it gets worse?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Ben said. “Pamela’s lawyer announced at the press conference that she’s filing a paternity suit against you.”

  “Shit!” Paul said. “She’s trying to give her lies an air of legitimacy. That’s just what you’d expect from a cheap lawyer. When is she filing?”

  “Next week, apparently,” Ben replied. “I’ll keep you posted, My Lord.”

  “Knock it off, Ben!” Paul said, smiling. “Talk to you later, Commoner.”

  He hung up smiling and dialed Walter Stewart’s direct phone number.

  “Hi, Paul,” Walter said. “Good to hear from you.”

  The two high school friends exchanged the latest news from their families and then Paul brought up the reason for his call.

  “Walter, I have a problem.” He began briefing Walter about Pamela. Walter interrupted.

  “I know, Paul,” he said. “I saw the news. I know the answer but I must ask, is there any truth whatsoever to what she’s been saying?”

  “None,” Paul said. “Not unless I’m God and this was the second Immaculate Conception.”

  Both men chuckled.

  He described his brief encounter with Pamela.

  “In addition to the injunction, we can request a court-ordered paternity test,” Walter said.

  “I was wondering about that,” Paul said. “Memorial Hospital has a record of my DNA. I’ll authorize its release to you.”

  “Good,” Walter said.

  “What are our chances of putting a stop to this right away?” Paul asked.

  “At first blush, it appears this case hinges on two things,” Walter said. “Their supposed DNA test and your witnesses. A judge will have to decide which DNA test to accept as legitimate. If for some reason that goes astray, then we’ll need a list of witnesses, that is people who saw you with Pamela and when, and what they say the two of you were doing, and people who can confirm you left the party alone. Any idea where we might track down those witnesses?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Paul said. “Ben Rodriguez may be able to help your investigators.”

  “I’ll call him,” Walter said. “I remember Ben. Thanks.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ken Hagerman’s Office

  New Scotland Yard

  “Bloody hell!” Hagerman shouted, reaching for his phone.

  Damn... when Paul stood up for that bloody kid I’d hoped he could pull it off. Apparently not!

  “Lord Winston’s office,” the woman’s voice said. “Clementine Shackleford here. How may we help you?”

  “Mrs. Shackleford, this is Ken Hagerman,” he said. “Is his lordship available, please?”

  “Yes he is, Chief Superintendent,” Mrs. Shackleford said. “I’ll let him know you’re on the line. One moment please.”

  Paul was on the phone with Malcolm Witherspoon when Mrs. Shackleford signaled him urgently from his office door.

  “I have to go,” Paul said. “Something’s come up. Why don’t you call my lawyer in Colorado Springs, Walter Stewart, about Pamela? He’s expecting to hear from you.”

  As soon as he hung up, Mrs. Shackleford said, “Chief Superintendent Hagerman is anxious to speak with you.”

  Paul returned the phone to his ear.

  “Hi Ken.”

  “Something has come up you’ll want to know about,” Ken said. “I was just reviewing CCTV videos of Ahmed Mousavi’s gang.”

  “Former gang,” Paul corrected him. “What’s up?”

  “Well, Paul, I hate to tell you but Mousavi was arrested last evening in that cafe on Peckham High Street the gang uses as its headquarters, along with a few of his fellow gang members.”

  “Aw, shit!” Paul said. “I need to see that video, okay? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “See you then,” Ken said. “And Paul?”

  “Yes?” Paul replied.

  “Would you mind taking a more secure route than the one through Serpentine Gardens?”

  “Good idea,” Paul said, smiling to himself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lord’s Library

  “This book came for you My Lord. It arrived shortly after you left yesterday.”

  Marion Stapleton, the House of Lord’s librarian, pointed at the corner of her desk at a parcel the size of a large hard cover novel. It was wrapped in heavy brown paper secured with strong packing tape.

  “That’s odd,” Paul said, picking up the parcel. “I didn’t order a book.”

  An illegible handwritten scrawl occupied the upper left corner where the return address usually went.

  “Any idea where this came from?” Paul handed the parcel back to Marion. “Did this come via intra-government transfer?”

  She glanced at it and handed it back quickly, shaking her head and standing.

  “No, My Lord,” Marion replied. “We use special packets for intra-government mail. I haven’t seen anything like this before.”

  Paul ran his hands over the package, feeling reassured after locating what felt like the book spine and the opposite edges where h
ard covers usually protruded beyond the pages of a book.

  Paul’s cell phone rang. He heard Anne’s voice and put the book back down on Marion’s desk.

  “Paul?”

  A feeling of warm affection spread through his lithe body as his mind’s eye held an image of her attractive face framed by her long dark hair.

  “Hi, my love!” he said, mesmerized as always by her voice.

  Anne took a deep halting breath.

  “Paul!” Anne said, her voice urgent. She groaned, obviously in pain.

  “What’s wrong, love!” Paul said, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s time, Paul... the baby’s coming! My water broke a few minutes ago. I’ll meet you at the hospital... Carlson’s driving me.”

  “Hold on!” Paul shouted, flustered and frightened for the first time in many years. “I mean, hurry. No, hold on. No, I mean ‘yes’, yes, my love... hurry! I mean, yes, yes, Carlson can drive. I mean, yes, that’s good. Oh, should I call an ambulance? No! Of course not! Carlson’s a good driver. Yes! Yes! Hurry!”

  He was rambling. He knew that Carlson, their estate manager, would take the best possible care of Anne en route to the hospital.

  “I’ll be just fine, Paul,” Anne said.

  Paul heard her chuckling lovingly at her befuddled husband. He knew that like him, she was wishing they could be together at this moment.

  Paul’s imagination pictured her smiling fondly at him, indulgently, knowingly. It helped calm him.

  “Got to go!” he said turning to Marion. He almost shouted. “The baby’s here... ah, it’s coming!”

  Marion thrust the parcel into his hands. Distracted, Paul shoved it into a new briefcase he’d bought earlier that day for House of Lords business. His much favored but battered cowhide briefcase would be assigned exclusively to personal and Secret Shepherd business.