by Jon King
So I drove to Marlborough, found a phone box and called Darren Adams, a Sunday Mirror journalist whom I’d know for several years, someone I’d bought the occasional drink for in exchange for hotwire leads, someone I’d fed the occasional UFO story to in return for the national coverage. Of all the people my scrambled head could think of Darren was the one person I figured might listen, might even be able to help in some as yet unfathomed way. The one person in any event that I hoped might lend a sympathetic ear. I was wrong, of course. But then I knew it was a dumb idea to begin with.
“Darren, it’s Jon King.”
“Jon, hi. How’s it going? Seen any UFOs lately?” He laughed.
I didn’t. “Listen, Darren. Something’s come up. You might be able to use it.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve just met someone. He told me something.”
“I’m with you.”
“I don’t know if I can say it over the phone.”
“We can meet. Can you give me half an hour?”
“I’m not in London.”
“Ah…”
“Look, Darren, I, ahh … it was something really big, really important. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?”
“I’ll need a bit more information than that, I’m afraid, Jon. What did this person actually say?”
“Something … you know, something … CIA-ish.”
“CIA-ish?”
“Well you know, something Kennedy-ish.”
“You mean Dealy Plaza-ish?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Something Dealy Plaza-ish.”
“No, nothing like that’s come our way lately, Jon. Sorry.”
By now I was starting to realize how ridiculous I must have sounded. But I was too freaked out to do much about it.
“Are you sure this guy had a full set of wheel nuts?” Darren said.
“I’ve spoken to him before, several times,” I said, as if this might prove the man’s integrity. It didn’t, of course. “He seems sound enough.”
“Well if I were you I’d check him out before taking what he said too seriously—whatever he said.”
“Of course…”
Just then, unexpectedly, my mind was momentarily distracted by something I’d just seen outside, through the call box window. A black Ford Granada with smoke-tinted windows had just slowed to a virtual standstill as it cruised past the call box, and had then picked up speed again and driven on along the street. Had they done that deliberately? With intent to intimidate? Given what I’d been told not more than an hour earlier by the American – that someone of global prominence was about to be assassinated – my mind was perhaps more prone than it might ordinarily have been to misinterpret, to imagine, to panic. I had to admit that. But there’d been no need for the Granada to have performed a manoeuvre like that—the traffic was free-flowing and there had been no obstacle in the road that would have caused the driver to slow down the way they did. Deliberately. Quite deliberately. I was sure of it. I couldn’t see who the driver or passengers were through the darkly tinted windows, of course. But whoever they were, if their intention had been to freak me out they’d clearly succeeded. My heart was in my throat, pounding, as though trying to smash its way out.
“So, anyway,” Darren was saying, obviously angling to wind down our conversation and get back to work. “How’s your new book doing? What’s it called again—Cosmic Top Secret, isn’t it?”
I was still numbed by what I was sure had just happened. “Cosmic Top Secret,” I echoed, absently. “It’s doing okay, thanks. The review you did helped enormously. I really appreciate it.”
“Hey, no problem. Any time. When your next book’s ready to go you know where to come. Nothing like a rave review in a national to shift a few copies.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I was still frantically scanning the high street as I spoke, left then right, left again, back and forth and back again in search of the mysterious Granada. It was nowhere to be seen. My heart was still pounding.
“Anyway, Jon, listen. I’d better get back to it. It’s pretty mad here. Saturday’s always our mad day—the day before publication. Deadline in a few hours.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll speak to you soon. And don’t forget you owe me a pint.”
“Next time I’m in town.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
With that Darren hung up.
I didn’t put the phone down straight away. Instead I just stood there, for what could have been several minutes, the phone still tight to my ear as if I was still in conversation. Fear does strange things to a person, and I guess I was just too frightened to move, too frightened to leave the call box and make my way back to my car in case the mysterious black Ford Granada suddenly appeared again and I was jumped. It didn’t, of course. It didn’t appear again and I wasn’t jumped. It was mid-Saturday afternoon in the centre of a busy Wiltshire market town, people everywhere. What was I thinking? If anyone wanted to jump me they would hardly choose this time and place to do it. After what seemed a small eternity I finally got a grip on my thoughts, hung up the phone and headed back to my car. I spent the entire journey home chasing ghosts in my rear-view mirror.
CHAPTER 16
Sunday, August 31st, 1997
The week that followed my last meeting with the American was a strange one, to say the least, if not altogether surreal. I just didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, I found it difficult to take what he’d said seriously enough for it to fully distract me. On the other, I just wasn’t sure.
At random moments in the day I’d find myself faced with the ludicrous realization that I’d been forewarned of an imminent high-profile assassination. The next minute I’d have to remind myself that it was probably not true, that even though some of the information the American had given me in the past had stacked up, he was nonetheless a ‘talker’, someone known in the seedy world in which he claimed to operate as a ‘flapper’, meaning that he had a loose tongue. There was always the possibility as well, of course, that he was simply a stray bullet—or as Darren had put it, someone short of a full set of wheel nuts. Was that it? Had I been taken in by the inventions of a crazy person? I couldn’t discount the possibility.
I knew in any event that he was someone whose claims I should treat with extreme caution. I had, after all, grown up listening to characters like him – the mercenaries who’d fought in Angola – most of whom had derived their daily gallon of ego juice from boasting about what they’d done or what they’d claimed to know. For all I knew this could have been just another ego massage: just another gallon of juice. So for the most part I just tried to push the whole thing to the back of my mind and get on with the rest of my life.
But it wasn’t that easy.
The one thing that bugged me most of all was why he’d seen fit to tell me—why me? If what he’d said was true – if there really was a high-level plot to “eliminate one of the most prominent figures on the world stage”, as he’d claimed – then why hadn’t he told someone better placed to do something about it? Why hadn’t he told someone like Darren Adams at the Sunday Mirror, for example, someone with an audience large enough to make a difference—someone the mainstream would listen to? Our magazine was doing pretty well, thank you very much, but compared to the nation’s tabloids and broadsheets it was a minnow. Worse: it was a fringe minnow, read largely by UFO enthusiasts and conspiracy theorists. Why would he choose to inform the editor of such a goofy publication about something of such global importance?
I would later learn the answer to this question, of course: I was being set up. But at the time I just couldn’t figure it at all.
So the week passed like that—kind of strangely. One minute I was sure the whole thing was a hair’s breadth short of laughable. The next I was terrified. Or at least greatly concerned that what he’d said might pack some flesh: that someone of world renown might indeed have been earmarked by some powerful, faceless cabal to become the victim of a fatal accid
ent.
“The media will tell you it was an accident,” he’d looked me in the eye and pronounced. “You’ll know it wasn’t.”
As each day passed the likelihood of this scenario coming real lessened in my mind by metre, it should be said. But I watched the news religiously, even so, waiting for the moment the Pope might fall from his pulpit, or President Clinton from his pedestal. Well who else could the American have been referring to? This one will be bigger than Kennedy. Who else but the President of the United States or the Head of the most powerful religious institution on the planet? Surely one or the other was about to be eliminated, I would think to myself. And then I’d rein myself in.
Don’t be ridiculous. Get a grip. No one is about to be assassinated.
Then Sunday came—Sunday, 31st August, 1997: the day that changed not only my life, but for a brief moment in time, at least, most everybody else’s life, too.
We’d planned a day out with the kids at a local aviation museum. On offer was a simulated helicopter ride and even a bombing raid over Dresden in a 1943-built Lancaster—or the ‘Lanc’ as it had been affectionately referred to during World War II. To minimize the loss of life, the bombing raid was also to be simulated.
Having showered and dressed I jogged down the stairs and entered the breakfast area to find Katie and the kids in buoyant mood. As was I. I’d put in long hours at the magazine in recent weeks and I was looking forward to a well-earned day off, in particular spending it with my family. But even though I felt pretty good I guess I must have looked pretty lousy, because the first thing Katie said as I entered the room was:
“You look like you need a coffee. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Maybe I’d been putting in even longer hours than I thought.
“So, today we get to fly in a helicopter,” I said to the kids as I took my seat at the table with them. “How cool is that?”
“A real helicopter?” Jack wanted to know.
“Well no, not exactly. It’s called a simulator. But it’s just like real.”
“Where are we going?” Ben put in.
“We’re going to the aviation museum.”
“What’s an aviation museum?” Rosie said.
Both Ben and Jack rolled their eyes at this question. Don’t little sisters know anything?
“It’s a place where old aeroplanes are kept,” I told her.
“And helicopters,” she said.
“And helicopters, right.”
“And fighter planes,” Jack pointed out.
“Yeah,” Ben agreed, and in perfect formation the two boys started dropping imaginary bombs from imaginary aircraft, complete with deafening sound effects. I hardly heard the telephone start to ring above the noise of exploding eight-thousand pounders.
“Is the museum far away?” Rosie was curious to know as I stood up to grab the phone.
“No, it’s not far,” I replied.
“Can I sit in the front?” Ben said.
“Well, I…”
“I’m sitting in the front,” Jack came back. “I’m the oldest.”
“That’s not fair!” Ben complained.
“Yes it is!” said Jack.
I picked up the phone and put it to me ear. “Hello?”
“No it’s not because I’ll never be the oldest,” Ben tried to explain. “That means I’ll never be able to sit in the front.”
Katie poured my coffee and brought it over to where I’d been sitting. “I’m older than all of you,” she told the boys, settling what could otherwise have been a lengthy dispute. “I’m sitting in the front.”
“Well done Ben!” Jack exclaimed. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“I never said anything.”
“Quiet everyone!” I suddenly demanded, drowning out even the loudest remonstrations from either Ben or Jack. The phone was pressed hard to my ear. “Quiet … please…”
It was JB. He’d just told me the news. Princess Diana had been killed in a road traffic accident. I went so cold my blood turned to ice.
CHAPTER 17
The next few days were a living nightmare. I just couldn’t believe it had actually happened. The media will tell you it was an accident. You’ll know it wasn’t. The American’s words kept resounding in my ears, in my head, repeating like some hideous, worst-case nightmare on relentless rewind. Not once had he mentioned the name ‘Princess Diana’, of course, I knew that. But everything else chimed.
“One of the most prominent figures on the world stage” will be assassinated “within days from now”, he’d said, barely a week prior. “This one will be bigger than Kennedy.”
Who else could he have meant? At this point in time, whether Diana’s death proved to be “bigger than Kennedy” remained to be seen. But undoubtedly she’d been “one of the most prominent figures on the world stage” – if not the most prominent – I couldn’t doubt that. And the manner of her death he could scarcely have predicted with more precision.
“The media will tell you it was an accident. You’ll know it wasn’t.”
Chance? Coincidence? Twist of fate?
Perhaps. But my churning innards wouldn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe that. Even before I’d put the phone down on JB I knew by instinct this was what the American had been referring to: that the accident he’d forewarned me about was the one that had just claimed Princess Diana’s life; that the assassination he’d forewarned me about had actually come to pass. I’d just have to reconcile myself with the fact and, once the dust had settled, decide what I was going to do about it.
But first I had my family to think about.
I still hadn’t told Katie what the American had said, that he’d forewarned me of Diana’s accident. There’d seemed little point. I didn’t want her worrying about something I felt sure would never happen. She knew about the meetings, of course. She knew about my meetings with the American just as she knew about my meetings with all the other ‘cloak-and-dagger’ characters who’d come forward over the years—informers, eyewitnesses, time-wasters, crazies. She just didn’t know what the American had told me on that final occasion at Avebury.
This one will be bigger than Kennedy.
I would have to tell her soon, though, I realized that. But not before the mushroom cloud had settled in my head. Not before I’d processed what had happened and not until I’d figured out what to do next.
Should I go to the police? The media? Write a book?
I just didn’t know. I couldn’t think in straight lines. I was scared, and I didn’t want Katie to have to deal with that. Not with any of it. So I kept a brave face and, for those first few days, said nothing, not a hint about what the American had said. I still didn’t know where he’d got his information, for one thing—I didn’t know who’d given him the information and I didn’t know who else knew he’d been given it. Worse: I didn’t know who knew he’d given it to me. How discreet had he been? Had he been followed to Avebury? Were the people who carried out the assassination aware that the American had spoken to me?
I just didn’t know. My head was a mess. All I knew was, if I told Katie too soon she would realize immediately that we were in danger – or that we might be – and she would worry herself crazy about me and the kids. I just didn’t want to inflict that on her, not yet.
Not ever.
So I stayed schtum, bottling up inside this deadly mix of confusion, disbelief and dread—not knowing what to do with it or where to take it. In the end I took it to JB, but at this early point in the game he was so reluctant to believe anything other than the official story that he didn’t want to hear it.
“You don’t know that he was talking about Diana,” was his initial rebuff.
“Well who else could he have been talking about?” I said.
“It’s just a coincidence, Jon. Nothing more than that.”
“And that’s what you think—honestly?”
“Why shouldn’t I? A high speed chase, driver loses control. Two plus two equals a very nas
ty mess. It was an accident, Jon. Forget it.”
I couldn’t. “That’s exactly what the American said they would say,” I pointed out, hoping against hope that the real JB would stand up. “Is that coincidence, too? He said the media would say it was an accident.”
“Well what else would they say? It was a car crash. In most people’s minds that’s an accident. If they wanted to kill her they would have shot her or something.”
“Would they? If they’d done that we wouldn’t be arguing over whether or not it was an assassination. We’d just be wondering who pulled the trigger.”
“No one pulled the trigger, Jon. It was an accident. End of.”
In those first few weeks following Diana’s death this was JB’s position on the matter. He was adamant. He wouldn’t be budged.
Not knowing quite what else to do or who to talk to I called Darren Adams at the Sunday Mirror again, several times. But each time I called he was either ‘not at his desk’ or he was ‘busy’. I called several other ‘numbers’—people I knew who might know something, people I knew who would know something. But no joy. It seemed everyone had gone to ground and no one was talking. This one was just too hot. The only person I hadn’t yet called was Rob Lacey.
Using an alias only he and I knew, Lacey had already tried to contact me at the office on the Tuesday after the crash, but I’d been out when he’d called and I’d decided to wait until I returned home from work that evening before calling him back. It was around seven in the evening when I finally wandered through into our living room and picked up the phone.