by English, Ben
When each had left, William exhaled and drew his fingertips across aching temples. “Leave us, Bethers,” he said to the suited man near the door. The guard, one of two Scotland Yard detectives detailed to the king, nodded curtly and stepped out, not quite closing the door behind him. William sighed again.
And that constituted as much privacy as he was likely to receive. He turned to the blond man near the window. “Bethers has been watching over me for years, nearly since that nasty business when I first met Jack.” Voice pitched low, he walked to the casement. “Whole bloody lot of them are walking on eggshells around their ‘boy king,’” he said sarcastically.
The other man’s lips curled as if he would speak, then he merely nodded. He was a short, hard fellow whose physique would have made him Herculean had he grown an additional six inches. As it stood, Alonzo Noel was a remarkable character. Bright, quick Latino eyes belied the leanness and angle of cheek and jaw more common among the peoples of Northern Europe. His posture indicated confidence and self-possession; it was the stance of a much larger, more imposing man, yet for Alonzo, it seemed to fit.
He pushed a handful of pale hair back from his forehead and said, “I’m so sorry, your Majesty. My clothes—I came as fast—”
William roughly embraced the other man, then released him. “I don’t care about any of that, Alonzo. Can you get her back for us?”
Alonzo blinked and licked his lips. “With all respect, sir, I’ve read the dossier and heard most of the report your men just gave. If Christine was taken out of the country, then their plans are technically—”
Again the king cut him short, grasping his shoulder, then the nape of his neck. “I think she’s here, in London.” He leaned close. “Somewhere in the city. Damn their plans and their ‘special contingencies,’ Alonzo. My daughter’s been taken.”
The shorter man hesitated before the king’s intensity. “What makes you think the kidnapers brought her into London? Like the chief, or whatever you call him over here, said, ‘doesn’t make sense.’” He turned to face the window, squinting against the unseasonable brightness.
Windsor walked to a recessed bar and mixed a drink. “Several months ago one of my subordinates passed a document to me, concerning some sort of plot. Came out of South America; Colombia or some such place. No, I don’t usually take notice of that rubbish, unless the Yard draws it to my attention,” he said in response to Alonzo’s unspoken question. “But my mother’s name was in it several times.”
The king continued. “The plot, or plan or whatever, had been passed over as nonsense, even though it was remarkably detailed.”
“Assassination?”
“Not only that, no. It called for the ‘elimination of national trust.’ There were a number of actions listed–assassinations among them–specific acts aimed at undermining a people’s trust in their national leaders and, I suppose, in the ideals of their culture.”
“Sounds ridiculous.”
“I thought so, too, until I read the entire document. Think a moment, how your own country was affected by that sordid business with your President a few years ago? I’ve studied the American Founding Fathers, Alonzo; how many of your countrymen truly understand what a President is anymore? Do you recall the concurrent problems in your stock market? In your military’s credibility?
William gestured helplessly. “So much of the workings of a country depend upon ethereal things. ‘Faith in democracy’ is not just a cliché, my friend. You may not recall, but England suffered a similar demoralization at the death of my mother.” He took a drink from the tumbler in his hand.
Alonzo was visibly shocked. “She was a target?”
“She was—a case study of some sort.” Windsor steadied himself against the bar, and returned to the window. “‘The true aim of any terrorist is the destruction of a belief system, of confidence in a way of life.’ Jack told me that once.”
The man at the window nodded. “That’s how they operate; instill fear at whatever level necessary to make people meet their demands. Their victims fold essentially because of fear, which is the essence of outright coercion.”
“My people, my subjects love Christine. The overall plan outlines the elimination of certain people and institutions which represent the faith of certain countries. My daughter was one. The Cuban president, Espinosa, is another.”
“Do you still have the report?”
“No, I passed the original on to the head of Six, months ago, and now he’s got no bloody idea where it is. Vanished from the archives, or mistakenly shredded. He never read it. I believe the Yard kept a copy of the targets for assassination.” William finished his drink in a single swallow. “Some of it was ranting, also. Ravings of a lunatic, decrying Western culture, the Arab nations, others. There was also some nonsense about an enormous electrical weapon. Pure science fiction.
“None of the others will act on this, Alonzo.”
“Doesn’t fit the profiles or scenarios their intelligence-weenies work so hard on, does it?”
“You’re perceptive.”
Alonzo’s nose twitched. “And in this plan you read, Christine was to be brought into London.” When Windsor nodded in affirmation, he continued. “Basically, you want me to contact Jack and try to find your daughter before whoever’s kidnapped her decides to kill her in the most demoralizing manner possible, to break the British psyche or whatever.”
“You put it so succinctly.”
The American looked away. William could see he was thinking ferociously.
“I’ll be frank, your Majesty. Jack—I doubt Jack will help. Since the accident last year—”
“He must. Make no mistake, Alonzo, you two are my last personal option. Jack must do this for me.” He clenched his teeth and swallowed, fighting the sudden wave of emotion that carried his heart up into his throat. William was so tired, so utterly empty.
He caught Alonzo watching him, and stiffened. Before he could open his mouth again, the small man spoke. “I’ll try. Comes to Jack, that’s all I can promise.” He walked to the door. “If he won’t help, I’ll come back and tear down this whole damn city myself, William–your Majesty.”
The king had regained his composure. “I’ve had a diplomatic liaison assigned to you.” He took a deep breath. “To keep me appraised more than anything else, though she’s supposed to be a crack shot. She’ll get you through customs with any equipment or weapons, and provide you with whatever you need.”
Alonzo fished in a deep pocket of his coat and withdrew an old leatherbound notebook. “I want a computer with anonymous ‘Net access, first of all. And a copy of whatever assassination wish list your people copied from the original record. If Jack’s in on this, he’s got weapons in Paris we can use. If that’s not enough we can always hit a POMCUS.”
“A what?”
“Ordnance that’s Prepositioned Outside Military Custody of the U.S., your Majesty. Caches of military equipment–weapons, ammo, trucks, all sorts of stuff hidden in special bunkers or civilian storage facilities around Europe. Very handy. They were originally put in place to resupply NATO for a month in case of a Soviet attack. Kept up ever since.” Alonzo zipped up his jacket. “I’m sure your country has something similar.” He was at the door and exited the room..
“Quite. Godspeed, Alonzo.”
The other man nodded pensively, sand exited the room.
The king looked immediately to the clock. With any luck he was wrong; the aching suspicion that Christine was somewhere in the city would be proven false and she’d be found. A scrap of evidence, a hint, a ransom note, something. He added fresh ice and poured himself another drink.
The last time anything like this had happened, he’d been fortunate beyond belief. Could it be too much to hope for another miracle, such as he’d seen all those years ago?
*
Young William hunched his shoulders and bolted for the alley, the heavy clatter of automatic weapons deafening him, shaking his bones. All his papers and art b
ooks from St. Andrew’s lay scattered on the wet cobblestones, some drenched in bright scarlet from his bodyguard’s wounds. The old man turned and fired once more back toward the figures on the other side of the Rolls, then was simply obliterated in a cloud of ruby red.
“Keep running!” the big American shoved him from behind again, and both young men entered the alley a split-second before the Rolls Royce Phantom IV exploded. The shockwave pitched them to the alley’s other end, and both managed to scramble to their feet before the first bullet ricocheted down the narrow walls.
The American’s jacket was burning, and he threw himself backward against a wall, smothering the flames and cursing. He’d picked up a handgun somewhere, and began to fire around the corner, loosing a dozen unaimed shots so quickly they sounded as though they came from a fully automatic weapon. The prince shook his head and tried vainly to think. His hands were sticky. Where was so much blood coming from? What was wrong with his mind?
Then movement from the far end of the lane caught his eye. More grim-faced assailants.
The American saw them, too. “Um, here!” He thrust the hot gun into William’s hands, and reached down to pry at a sewer access.
“What are you about?” The prince demanded. He’d had plenty of practice with pistols and managed a shot at the approaching gunmen.
His companion grunted and pulled at the manhole. “Can you swim?”
He wrenched the heavy slat up and half-pulled, half-dragged William down. The prince dropped the gun, slipping awkwardly into the gaping hole. There were stairs; no, a ladder of some sort, and William stuttered down it until he was standing in calf-deep water.
Above, the blond American curled into a ball, bracing against the edge of the sewer access and the half-open manhole. The thick metal bucked and screeched suddenly, and Wills heard the carom of light caliber rounds echoing in the narrow lane. Then the American dropped into the sewer, pulling the manhole shut behind him.
In the half-light, William watched as the American whipped off his own belt and shoved it first under a rung of the ladder, then knotted it through some sort of handle on the manhole’s underside. No sooner had he finished than a heavy footfall resounded against the steel slab.
There was barely enough light slipping in around the edges of the manhole to see the expression on the American’s face as he joined William in the tunnel. “I’m Jack. You hurt?” he asked, frisking William awkwardly.
The metal above groaned and a sliver of brighter light sliced down the access shaft. The belt was stretching.
A muzzle of a gun jabbed into the thin opening, and both young men moved. William was taller by an inch or so, but Jack was thicker, more heavily muscled. He led the way. As they slogged off down the dark tunnel toward a spot of wavering, green light, William was positive he heard him speak.
“I’m getting good at this,” he muttered. “I can’t believe I’m actually getting good at this.”
*
William was a lifetime past that tragedy, more than a decade past the harrowing ordeal the papers had called an adventure, and he could still feel the cold, dark insistence of all that water. At least he hadn’t faced it alone, though his companion had been nearly as bewildered as the prince himself.
Would Jack fix this, or was he too far broken himself?
“God give us all grace equal to our day.” The king bowed his head and began to pray.
Her Father’s Notes
Forge, Idaho
8 AM
The cool morning breeze carried intimations of jasmine and pine needles through the open back door. Mercedes sat at the table in what had been her grandmother’s kitchen, peeling an orange and laying the triangles of curling rind on the marbled Formica. If she ducked her head just so, she could see into a robin’s nest outside the window. There were two light blue eggs in the nest, the parents flitting anxiously from branch to branch nearby.
Just then Diane came through the kitchen on her way to the pantry, a load of laundry balanced before her. “‘Morning,” she said brightly. Diane’s hair was still in curlers. “Oh, did Harry leave this open?” She set the laundry basket on her hip and levered the door shut.
“Sorry, Diane; I kept it open after he left. Can I give you a hand?” Mercedes started to rise.
“That’s all right, love,” Diane set the basket on the white drier that sat adjacent to the washing machine and came back into the kitchen. She wore a faded blue bathrobe and matching slippers. One toe peeked from a hole in her footwear. “I’ll get to these clothes later. I’ve got a house to show this afternoon before Neal gets home from work, then we’re taking you out to eat. Can’t let you and Irene waste away on vacation.”
Her cousin had become modestly successful as a real estate agent; Mercedes imagined that her salary, combined with her husband’s earnings as an engineer at the local power company, placed Diane’s family in the town’s upper middle class. You wouldn’t know it to look at her. She was still the same cousin. Same threadbare slippers.
A third voice sounded from the stairs. “Who’s wasting away? You cook as much as Grandma Britt.” Irene, still in her thick cotton pajamas, stepped into the room and folded herself into a chair. She took a section of orange. “You’re going to have me getting up before the roosters, like Mercedes here, to run off all the fat. Honestly,” she glanced at Mercedes. “Is this a vacation?” Under her breath she added, “Any luck at finding me a Starbuck’s while you were out running around?”
Diane set two plates in front of them. “Listen to that, Mercedes. My sister; she grows up to become a cop, marries a guy from L.A., and forgets how to have a real breakfast. Waffles, eggs, and bacon for the both of you!” It sounded like a threat.
Mercedes laughed. “I boiled myself some eggs while you were out, and Harry shared a bowl of oatmeal with me before he went to t-ball.” She handed her cousin a section of orange.
“You early risers,” Diane smiled, ripping a section of paper towel off the rack for their cousin. “Did you sleep okay?”
Irene shook her head. “Hard to get to sleep without a husband and a bed full of kids kicking around all night.”
It was Diane’s turn to laugh. I’ll send Harry and the baby in with you then tonight. I’m keeping my husband, though.” She took a sip of juice. “Serves you right for going on vacation without your family. How about you, Merce?”
“Like a rock. You guys put a new mattress on the old bed, didn’t you?”
Diane took an orange from the bowl on the table and began to work her thumbnail into the pored, pitted skin. “Neal and I bought a bunch of things for the place after Grandpa Max passed away.”
Though their relationship was a bit farther removed than grandparent and grandchild, Diane and Irene, like all the Bergstrom children, referred to Max Adams by the title he liked best.
“That reminds me,” Diane said. “We found some of your dad’s papers in the study, in Grandpa Max’s old desk. They were still in the FedEx box they came in.”
“Really?” Mercedes finished the orange and swept the peelings onto the paper towel. “A whole box worth?”
“Yeah. Neal went through them all; he said they were research or something. Maybe notes from when they taught at college.”
“Dad told me he sent a bunch of his notes and white papers up here for safe keeping. I must’ve forgotten.” She thought for a moment. One of her father’s old friends back in California might have a use for them. Mercedes didn’t care all that much for pieces of her parents’ professional lives. It had been the research, she sometimes told herself, the particle research and all the stray radiation that had caused her family’s health problems. Problems, hell; the weird, secret experiments for the government in lab after nameless lab had taken her parents and damn near killed her.
Mercedes gritted her teeth and then smiled. “Probably notes for their classes. I wish Mom and Dad had just stayed with the university.”
Irene made a sympathetic face and added Mercedes’ orange p
eelings to her own, sweeping the lot up and depositing them in the yellow trashcan beneath the sink. She worried at her lip with her teeth, and began pulling the curlers from her sister’s hair. “If they’d just been teachers you wouldn’t have to worry so much about your inheritance.”
“Oh, I don’t worry. My lawyer told me anything I inherited--including all the money the government forked over when Mom and Dad died--can’t be touched as long as I keep it in trust.”
“That probably made Bryce a little crazy,” Diane said.
Mercedes grimaced at the name of her ex husband. “He was a little crazy to begin with.” She’d been divorced nearly eight months. “But my trust fund wasn’t much compared with the allowance and portfolio his parents gave him. What bothered him most was the fact that I didn’t want any of his money when we split. That made him a little crazy.” Mercedes slipped her feet out of her sandals and put them up on the chair opposite her.
Irene stood. “I’ve heard this part of the story. Want some tea, Diane?” She fished a copper teakettle off its hook by the stove and began filling it with water.
Diane took a piece of the orange. “Sure. Get Merce some too.”
Mercedes held up her hand. “No thanks.”
Diane was curious. “I always thought Bryce married you for money. Isn’t that the way rich people think?”
“My inheritance was small potatoes compared with his family’s money. He liked to think he was taking care of me, even when he’d be gone for days, sailing. All the time I’d be gone on a photo shoot, or running around L.A. setting up business, he’d be out on his boat with whatever silicone-pumped bimbo he could pick up. He never figured I’d start having enough success taking pictures that I wouldn’t have to rely on him.”