by Jon King
“Jon!” JB yelled, but I was already on my way.
“Could you at least confirm that your office was broken into following the princess’s visit?” I shouted at Roderick Lane’s back. “Mr Lane…?”
He just kept walking.
“Your computer was stolen, wasn’t it—”
No response.
“—The one containing the record of Diana’s visit?”
Still no response.
“They feared she could have been pregnant and they wanted to destroy the evidence before the press got hold of it, didn’t they?”
Finally we reached the door to Roderick Lane’s office, where he stopped, suddenly, and swung round to face me. His eyes were narrow and searching, as though trying to figure me out. How do you know all this? Who told you? Where did you get this information?
“Please, Mr Lane. Whatever the princess told you, whatever she confided in you, it could be crucial in helping to establish the truth about her death. The truth, Mr Lane.”
It was at this point that the inquisitive look in Roderick Lane’s eyes darkened to one of veiled terror. He was too frightened to confront that truth. “The princess died in an accident, Mr King,” he said. “A simple, tragic accident. Now if you’ll excuse me I have other clients to attend to.”
That said, Roderick Lane turned and shuffled into his office, closing the door behind him.
“Well handled, Jon,” JB said with pointed sarcasm as we made our way back along New Cavendish Street towards Harley Street Car Park, where we’d left the car. The way he was striding out told me he wasn’t in the best of moods. “What the hell got into you?”
“I’m sick of being palmed off, JB. He was hiding something.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well he must have known about the break-in, about his computer being stolen. He must have suspected something.”
“Why?”
“Because just prior to the break-in Diana had been to see him. That’s why we’re here, remember? His computer was stolen, the one containing Diana’s personal file—the one containing the answer to whether or not she was pregnant. He must have known.”
“Maybe he just didn’t want to talk about it.”
“What…?”
“He probably thinks it’s a coincidence—”
“Some coincidence…”
“—And that we’re just a couple of conspiracy nuts jumping to crazy conclusions.”
“Are you serious?” I halted, sharply, grabbed JB’s arm and swung him round to face me. “Is that what you think, too?”
“I sometimes wonder.” He snatched his arm free from my grasp. “There are ways of doing things, Jon. Jumping on him like that is not one of them. It got us nowhere.”
“Well how would you have gone about it?”
“Not like that.”
I wanted to say: Well what the hell else was I supposed to do? The guy wasn’t talking. Nobody’s talking. There’s a massive cover-up in place and everyone’s too scared to say anything. But I didn’t say any of those things. Instead I simply stood there, searching JB’s eyes for some measure of empathy, understanding, support: but there was none—just this cold, hard stare that told me he believed he was right.
And of course he was. I’d overreacted. I’d let things get the better of me and I’d lost control. And as JB had just said, it had got us nowhere.
“Okay, you’re right,” I said, finally, not wanting to admit it but having nowhere else to take it. I let go a frustrated breath. “I should have done it differently.”
“I know.” A lingering look from JB, just long enough that I was left in no doubt – he was right, I was wrong – and then he turned and started across the road ahead of me, towards Chandos Street and Harley Street Car Park. “Come on,” he said. “We can stop by Canary Wharf on the way back, call in on Darren Adams and see him about the book serialization.”
Call in on Darren Adams and see him about the book serialization.
I started after JB. At least this day would give up something worthwhile, I told myself as I followed him across the road and back towards the car park. At least Darren would want to talk to us—wouldn’t he?
●
Half an hour or so later we pulled into the underground car park on Canary Wharf, home to much of the nation’s tabloid press, including the Sunday Mirror offices where we were hoping to catch Darren Adams. Darren, of course, was a news reporter with the Sunday Mirror, someone I’d known now for six or seven years, someone with whom I’d exchanged leads, tips, stories, and who’d been my main ‘Fleet Street’ contact ever since my days as editor of UFO Reality. As JB had reminded me as we’d made our way back to the car from Roderick Lane’s clinic around half an hour earlier, our book was finally on its way from America. It was due to arrive here next week (two years late, I might add, but that was another story), and the Sunday Mirror had agreed to serialize it. Which for us was a coup. Even though, somehow, we’d managed to secure a deal with an independent UK distributor, there was still no publisher here willing even to look at the book, much less license it for publication in the UK. Which meant we had no corporate publicity machine to tell everyone it had arrived. So when Darren managed to persuade his editor that our story would sell his newspaper we were made up, to say the least. Not that his editor had needed much persuading, by all accounts. Quite the opposite: the hottest story since Squidgygate, he’d coined it. He’d even instructed Darren to run a feature on us to run alongside the serialization, so keen was he for the story. Indeed, we’d spent the best part of the last twelve months trying to keep him at bay as we’d waited and waited for the book to finally arrive—constant phone calls, lunches, meetings, at which he’d tried desperately to convince us to let them run with the story now. We’d said no, and no again. Not until the book arrived. We wanted the story to make waves, we’d told him, and we felt that running the feature prior to the book’s arrival would lessen its impact. Thankfully he’d listened to reason.
But now the book was finally here there would be no further prevaricating. The feature would appear in this Sunday’s paper. The serialization would begin the week after that.
Next Sunday, Darren had said when I’d spoken to him a couple of days ago. Barring World War Three breaking out and snatching all the headlines, the feature will be next Sunday’s lead story, front page. He’d added: You’d better tell your distributor to be well prepared, coz you’re gonna sell a lot of books.
Needless to say we were elated, more than a little apprehensive, as well. We knew, of course, that coverage on a national scale like this would publicize not only the book, but also our call for a public inquiry into Diana’s death. As we approached the Sunday Mirror offices, standing tall and gleaming there among the other sky-scraping office blocks on Canary Wharf, I couldn’t help but feel the tingle of anticipation running through my veins.
On reaching the giant-sized glass-panel doors at the foot of the Trinity Mirror skyscraper I hit the button on the intercom and waited for a reply.
Then: “Sunday Mirror,” the female voice came back, almost immediately. “Can I help?”
“I’d like to speak to Darren Adams,” I said. “News desk. It’s Jon King”
“One moment.”
In the short space of time it took the receptionist to put me through, a strange sense of foreboding came over me, like a dark cloud descending on an otherwise sunny day. It felt heavy, almost sinister. Why was I suddenly feeling like this?
“Jon,” the male voice said on the intercom. “It’s Darren. How can I help?” His tone was unusually short, unwelcoming, unlike the Darren Adams I’d come to know: unlike the Darren Adams I’d spoken to only two days before.
“I just thought I’d drop by and offer to buy you that pint,” I said, throwing a slightly puzzled glance at JB – what’s wrong with Darren? – while at the same time endeavouring to keep the conversation upbeat. “I’m with JB. We were in town and we thought it might be a good idea to touch
base prior to the story coming out next Sunday. A good excuse for a drink if nothing else.”
“I see. Actually I’m quite busy at the moment, Jon—deadlines, you know how it is.”
“Too busy for a quick pint?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Oh, right, well … no problem…”
“Maybe next time.”
“Next time, yeah, sure...” An awkward silence fell, one that only added to the growing sense of unease I was undoubtedly feeling. At length: “Well … listen, the book will be here in a couple of days,” I said, endeavouring to smooth out the silence. “Maybe I’ll drop by and bring you a copy then?”
No reply.
“Darren …?”
“I’m still here.”
“Well, what’s the problem? I take it the deal’s still on? I take it you still want the exclusive?”
“That might prove difficult, I’m afraid, Jon.”
“What? But you’ve been chasing us for the past twelve months. I thought it was a done deal?”
“It was, but … look, I’m sorry, Jon. Orders from above.”
“Above? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it says.” Another short silence before Darren could bring himself to explain. And even when he did, he did so stutteringly. “Listen, Jon, I … I’m not supposed to tell you this…”
“What? Tell me what…?”
“I’m afraid you’ve been D-Noticed.”
“D-Noticed…?” I was stunned. Being a magazine editor myself I’d had some experience of the D-Notice, or what had recently been rechristened the DA-Notice, though most journalists still referred to it by its former name. Simply put, and despite its official designation as an ‘advisory notice’, a DA-Notice was an official government warning issued to media editors and producers, preventing them from publishing or broadcasting material the government didn’t want published or broadcast. Evidently our book fell into that category. “But that’s ridiculous,” I said. “How can the government issue a DA-Notice when the book hasn’t even arrived yet?”
“I’m sorry, Jon, but that’s the way it is.”
“But … on what grounds?”
“I think you know that, Jon. DA-Notice Five, United Kingdom Intelligence and Security Services—”
“And Special Services, whatever the hell they are,” I heard myself say.
“—And Special Services, exactly. It prevents us publishing information that the government fears might compromise covert operations and those involved in them. Need I say more?”
“But surely that’s an admission that the crash was a covert operation. By D-Noticing our book they’re admitting involvement in Diana’s death.”
“What they’re doing, Jon, is preventing us from running the feature and serializing the book.”
“Yes, but…”
“I’m afraid that’s the bottom line, Jon. That’s just the way it is. Now, look … I’d really better go. We’ll catch up soon.”
With that the intercom died. And almost, so did I.
I virtually crawled home that night, not because I was drunk, although God knows the idea of consuming a little too much alcohol seemed very appealing as I trudged up the garden path, turned the key to the front door and stepped inside. Katie would be in bed, I was pretty sure of that, so I closed the door and slipped through to the kitchen as noiselessly as I could. I didn’t even turn the lights on. Knowing the reception I would receive for being home late, again, I didn’t want to wake Katie up. Just couldn’t face another confrontation. Not now. Not after what had transpired in the past few hours. I was simply too exhausted. I felt winded, battle-scarred, and no less pissed off that yet again JB and I had been turned over by the powers-that-be—powers bigger and stronger than both of us. It felt like we’d been turned over and shaken until the entire contents of our pockets had emptied on the ground, and there seemed precious little we could do about it.
And that was the worst thing: knowing there was no means of recourse, no way of punching the bully back except by remaining resolute. By keeping on. By not giving in. Which for the past four years, of course, was precisely what we’d done. Tonight, though, I felt like nothing more in the world than turning my back and walking away: giving in.
Instead I sat myself down at my computer and sipped the coffee I’d just made. It burned my tongue.
Despite the fact that Roderick Lane – like pretty much everyone else we’d spoken to – had refused to cooperate; and despite, too, the Sunday Mirror’s sudden and unexpected U-turn, we still had a book to promote and a lecture tour to organize, and I’d promised our PR, Mark, that I would have a press release ready for him the following day. Since raising the finance to fund the new magazine, Mark had become a pivotal part of our team, not only as magazine proprietor, but also as our campaign manager—running the promotional campaign JB and I had planned for the book’s arrival in the UK, a campaign that had already seen us interviewed on all the major radio and TV shows in the country, and which would soon involve us travelling the length and breadth of Britain, giving talks and signing books. I was tired, dog tired. It was closing on midnight. But I’d promised Mark I’d have the press release ready and I didn’t want to let him down. Taking another sip at my hot coffee I opened up a Word document and started to type.
I’d barely written the first paragraph when the light splashed on and virtually blinded me.
“You’re back then,” Katie said, suddenly standing there by my office door, looking anything but pleased to see me. She’d just switched the main light on.
Startled, I spun round on my chair and almost knocked what was left of my coffee crashing to the floor. “Katie,” I said, squinting through the bright light suddenly abusing my eyes. “You made me jump.”
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, I … I’m just polishing up the press release for the book.”
“At midnight?”
“Mark’s waiting for it.”
“I’m waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for you for the past four hours. What happened this time?”
I had no answer.
“You missed Rosie’s bed time—again.”
“I know, I…”
“You missed mine, too.”
“I’m sorry, babe. It’s just … the conference is coming up, the book tour … we need to be up to speed.”
Katie didn’t respond, not verbally. But the look in her eye told me she was more disappointed with my excuse than angry with it. Which made me feel worse.
“Look, Katie, please … it’s important…”
“To who, Jon? Important to who?”
“To me, to us. To everyone, including Rosie.”
“Rosie?”
“Yes, Rosie.”
Katie considered this for a moment. But only for a moment. Her eyes were by now raw with tears. “My guess is she’d rather have you kiss her goodnight,” she said, then turned and left me alone, shutting the door firmly behind her.
“Katie…”
I should have gone after her, should have followed her out of my office and told her I was sorry, that I loved her, that she was more important to me than this stupid Diana thing: than anything.
But I didn’t. Instead I turned my attention back to my computer and took up where I’d left off writing the damned press release. That’s how obsessed I’d become.
CHAPTER 37
Vietnam had been hell. The heat, the paranoia, the madness; the fever and the dysentery and the ever-present stench of ‘jungle rot’—the open sores and tropical ulcers that lacerated your feet after six days and nights out on patrol, without a break. Sometimes longer.
The constant fear of being captured. And tortured. Of dying a slow, excruciating death in the dungeons of the Hanoi Hilton, the famed North Vietnamese torture facility where so many of his buddies had met an untimely end.
The leaches. The mosquitoes. The fear of stepping on a mine.
Or on a snake’s tail. Most
of the snakes in Vietnam were as lethal as any Viet Cong sniper, after all, as deadly as any enemy ambush or booby trap. As his unit commander had once wisecracked, the ones that didn’t bite simply crushed you to death. And he’d never quite known which – venom or asphyxiation – he would have plumbed for, given the choice.
Lighting a cigarette he exited the American Embassy and made his way mindfully through London’s mid-morning drizzle towards Grosvenor Gate and Park Lane. The drizzle was cool on his skin, a far cry from the sweat and the swamp rash that had stung his face in Nam’s My Lai Jungle, he mused. And then again in Ha Long Bay. Quite why these memories of his days – weeks, months, years – in Vietnam had resurfaced in him on this dull, winter’s day he had no idea. But as he paused at Grosvenor Gate to hail a passing cab they played on his mind like an old-school newsreel, no denying that. Stubbing out his cigarette underfoot he climbed in the back of the cab, and his memories climbed in with him.
His first tour of Vietnam had been as a regular special forces soldier with America’s Green Berets. In all he’d spent more than two years with this elite fighting force—training South Vietnamese troops to kill their communist neighbours, rescuing downed American helicopter pilots from behind enemy lines, carrying out guerrilla incursions deep in enemy territory. He’d been decorated no less than five times during this period. He’d also witnessed more horrors than any one person should.
But it was what had occurred during his fourth, possibly his fifth, tour of war-ravaged Vietnam – he’d been there so many times, and witnessed so many horrors, he could scarcely remember which – that had shaped his life so indelibly. It was during this tour that he’d been selected out and transferred to the highly secret MACV-SOG (Military Assistance Command, Vietnam-Studies and Observation Group). This was the elite CIA-US Army Special Forces unit the American government had crafted specifically to carry out its covert missions in Laos and Cambodia—places the American military was not supposed to be. It had proved his introduction to the darker side of unconventional warfare, to covert and deniable operations—and ultimately to the agency for whom he would work for the rest of his days: the CIA.