by Jon King
Stubbing out a half-smoked cigarette underfoot the American glanced up and saw that very same asshole approaching him now in the back of a diplomatic limo. As the limo slowed and pulled alongside him its tinted rear window slid down to reveal the asshole’s face.
“Get in,” Mason said to him. “It’s unlocked.”
The American opened the door and climbed in. “Long time,” he said. “Your manner hasn’t changed.”
“Neither has your smoker’s breath,” Mason rejoined, then turned and gave instruction to the limo’s driver via the in-car radio. “Drive,” he said. “It doesn’t matter where. Foreign diplomat status applies.”
As the limo pulled away its doors locked automatically and the bulletproof window through which Mason had greeted his foreign diplomat guest wound back up, all by itself. In that moment the limo became as attack-proof as any Chieftain tank.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Mason was saying a few minutes later as they cruised along East Smithfield on approach to Tower Bridge. “Not that I need to justify myself to you. But there was no viable option.”
“You could have pulled them out.”
“If I’d done that we’d have lost the target.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. We had the cell completely noosed. If we’d waited for backup to arrive we would have accomplished the mission without any losses on our side. Home and dry.”
“Naïve speculation. Typical CIA. If we’d waited as you suggest the entire operation could have been compromised.”
“That’s a matter of opinion—your opinion. The boys on the front line were totally exposed.”
“It happens.”
“Oh really?” The American flicked a glance at the man seated opposite him. The closest Mason had ever come to the front line was playing prop forward for Gordonstoun Boys rugby team, and he knew it. “And what would you know about the front line, anyway?”
“That’s hardly the point,” Mason said. “In any case, it’s in the past. What’s done is done. The operation was a success. And that, ultimately, is all the matters.” He slid his gaze out the window.
The American bit his teeth. He didn’t agree with the way the operation had been run and he didn’t like the idea that two young operatives had lost their lives, unnecessarily in his opinion—the result of Mason’s personal ambition. He knew well enough that Mason had given the order to go in purely for the badge he’d won as a result—gaining promotion to his current rank of MI6 Chief of Special Operations, Europe. But now wasn’t the time to argue the point, he told himself for the umpteenth time. It wasn’t his concern. He’d taken the money for his part in the operation and that was where he’d laid his hat. Any case, there were more pressing issues to be dealt with, he reminded himself—the very reason he was here.
Swallowing his disquiet – for now – he said, simply: “So why did you request this meeting?”
Mason visibly tightened. “The cut-out,” he said. “Your cut-out.”
“Jon King?”
“He’s making a noise.”
“That’s what he’s supposed to do.”
Mason pursed his lips, in a manner that said he was unhappy with this reply.
The American noted it. “So what would you have me do?”
“You tell me,” Mason said. “You’re the one who fed him a line. This was your idea.”
“To give the public something to hang their grief on, yes. And so far it’s worked.”
“I would say that depends on how you measure success.”
“Like everyone else—by results.” He paused, as though to punctuate what he’d just said. Then: “Look,” he went on. “The tide is against us, as we predicted it would be. We had to make provision for public reaction—”
“Bah…”
“—Have you read the opinion polls? Have you any idea how people are feeling out there? They’re angry. They need to feel vindicated.”
“Vindicated?” Mason huffed. “You Americans pay too much attention to public mood. The public will eat what we feed them.”
“Maybe so. But if we keep feeding them TV dinners we need to be prepared for when they throw up.”
Again Mason huffed. “And that’s another thing. You’re too fond of platitudes. If this results in a public inquiry…”
“It won’t.”
“It had better not, because that could make things very difficult for a lot of people.”
“You mean you could get found out and lose your job.”
“I mean we need to maintain a closed operation—at all costs. An inquiry forced through by public opinion could prove extremely embarrassing, for your government and mine.”
“Well like I said, it won’t come to that.”
“And like I said, it had better not.”
For the next few moments a jagged silence settled between them, the American throwing a fractious glance out the darkly tinted window as they cruised past the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange and on towards Mansion House in the heart of London’s financial district: Mason stared coldly ahead. But only briefly. By the time they’d reached St Paul’s Cathedral the MI6 man had opened a compartment by his side and pulled out an A4 portfolio. He handed it to the American.
“This is the other reason you’re here,” he said. “The prodigal prince.”
Opening the portfolio the American retrieved a photograph of a man in his late thirties, small in stature and wearing overstated glasses. He was also wearing a tartan sash and kilt. “The prodigal prince?” he said.
“Michael Roger Lafosse, aka Prince Michael James Alexander Stewart, seventh Count of Albany. The tartan he’s wearing belongs to the Scottish clan of the Stuarts, the lot who occupied the Throne in the seventeenth century. Lafosse thinks he’s a descendant of Bonnie Prince Charlie and therefore a legitimate claimant to the Scottish Throne, which of course no longer exists. He’s Belgian. Moved to Scotland in nineteen-seventy-six to pursue his claim.”
“Hence the prodigal prince.” The American was reading through the notes in the portfolio. “It does say here he has a birth certificate proving his lineage.”
“Not anymore, he doesn’t. I arranged a black bag team to gain entry to his apartment and pick up anything that might legitimize his claim. We’ve had his passport for a while now so he can’t go anywhere, and we’ve also rewritten his birth certificate so he’s no longer who he wants everyone to believe he is. He is now officially a fraud. To help your cause I’ve arranged the necessary introductions with someone who’ll convince your cut-out King that the prince is genuine.”
“And is he?”
Mason’s eyes hardened at this question. “He is who we say he is,” was his flat response.
“But you’re confident King will take the bait?”
“I don’t see why not. He’s waltzed into every trap we’ve set for him so far. No reason to suspect he won’t waltz headlong into this one.” He paused, then added: “That is if he doesn’t incite a national revolution first.”
“King? Oh, come on. He’s a two-bit conspiracy theorist. No one will take him or his book seriously. We’ve blocked all reviews and serializations in the mainstream press and we’ve also blocked the book being licensed by any of the major publishers over here. He’s walled in.”
“Well all I can say is, for someone who’s walled in, as you put it, he seems to be making a very good fist of things. Despite your efforts he’s managed to get himself on every radio and TV station in the country and I’m reliably informed he’s planning a national book-signing and lecture tour. What’s more, the public are right behind him.”
“They’re meant to be. That’s the whole point. Give him enough ammunition and eventually he’ll shoot himself.” He held up the portfolio in front of him. “All the more so now that we have a new ace card.”
Mason remained unmoved. “Just make sure this doesn’t go any further,” he said, a noticeable chill in his tone now. “Nip it now, or I’ll hold you personally accountable.” Again Maso
n turned and spoke into the in-car radio. “Pull over,” he told the driver. “Our guest is getting out.”
At Mason’s command the limo pulled over and came to a halt at the side of the road. Mason continued to stare straight ahead as the American tucked the Stuart Portfolio in his attaché case, then opened the door and started to climb out.
“You know what?” the CIA man turned and said to Mason as he stepped from the limo and out onto the pavement. “You’re an abject son of a bitch.”
Mason didn’t reply, didn’t even bother to look as the American closed the door behind him and walked on along the street. Instead he leaned to one side and again spoke into the in-car radio.
“Drive,” was all he said.
And as if by the power of the word alone the limo pulled off and drove on.
CHAPTER 40
Okay, this was where it started to get weird. Really weird. For all that we’d faced up phantoms in our attempts to uncover the truth; for all that we’d been surveilled, monitored and manipulated like puppets on some insidious, invisible string: indeed, for all that we’d become slave to what appeared to be, to all intents and purposes, some pernicious, calculated mind game controlled by fear and paranoia – and our lives had been turned inside out in the process – for all that and more, things were about to get even weirder.
Had we realized what was happening at the time, of course; had we known the agenda behind our extraordinary meeting with the man we would know only as ‘the Doctor’, we would almost certainly have turned our backs and walked away. Or at least dealt with the situation differently. But we didn’t. And ultimately, I was glad we didn’t. But I didn’t know that at the time.
Confused? So were we. All I would ask is that you stay with us. The following twist, as bizarre and unlikely as it might at first seem, will unravel edifyingly in the end. At which point the sting will become evident, and the lengths to which the intelligence services were prepared to go to silence John and I will become all the more evident, too.
We were on the London Eye, looking down on Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Only three of us occupied the capsule—myself, JB and the man we’d come here to meet: a man who’d been introduced to us simply – and rather curiously – as the Doctor. Dressed in fine mohair overcoat, white silk scarf and wearing a neatly trimmed, steel-grey beard, the Doctor was everything you might expect of a multi-generational Scottish aristocrat—honed features, straight back, cultured English accent cut with a fine Scots lilt. Not that we’d heard much of that lilt. Aside from the customary pleasantries on greeting our guest at the foot of the Eye some ten minutes earlier, in fact, scarcely a word had passed between us, and we were beginning to wonder if the Doctor had forgotten his lines. Or maybe even that he’d changed his mind and wished now that he hadn’t arranged to meet us. Turned out we were wrong, on both counts.
For our part, we’d been told the Doctor had worked for a Foreign Office department responsible for certain historical and genealogical documents, some of which dated back centuries—possibly even as far back as 200 AD. We didn’t know documents went back that far (or if they did, what possible relevance they might have had regarding our investigation), but we’d been assured that the information the Doctor had for us might be significant, and may even be useful in terms of identifying a motive for Diana’s death. As if there weren’t enough motives already. Needless to say, neither JB nor I bore the faintest inkling quite where all this might lead, if anywhere at all. But having spent an arm and a leg booking a private capsule on the giant Ferris wheel overlooking the River Thames – the London Eye – we were hoping for at least a half-decent return on our investment. And in a strange kind of way, we received that and more.
“Westminster,” the Doctor finally announced, gazing thoughtfully out the capsule window, across the river at Parliament. “It’s where it all began. The English inveigled James the Sixth of Scots into becoming James the First of England, and Westminster finally gained control of Britain. It was the greatest conspiracy ever perpetrated on the British people.” He threw a reconciled glance our way. “Too late to do anything about it now, of course.”
“Of course.” Not knowing quite what else to say I turned to JB, who pulled a face and shrugged.
The Doctor turned and peered back out the window. “Oh, there were one or two half-hearted attempts to regain the Throne in the early days,” he went on, unbidden. “One or two aborted efforts to win back the crown from Westminster. But of course they came to nothing. Power was already in the hands of the bankers, you see. It was what you might refer to as a financial coup d'état. Secretly Parliament had signed away the nation’s fiscal powers to the Anglo-Dutch oligarchy that had taken over the City, and in the process the Stuart monarchy was sold down the river. That was the beginning of the end.”
Without removing his gaze from Parliament, the Doctor stood up straight and stretched his back, then rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, as though musing. I took the opportunity to study the man.
For all that he seemed a little quirky, I considered, he was nonetheless engaging, and strangely enigmatic. Standing a full six feet, perhaps even more, he had the feel of a man half his age, and I couldn’t help noting how much he reminded me of Sean Connery. Of course, none of this explained why he’d wanted to talk to us, and that was what bothered me. He was, after all, a government man; had been all his life, or so the person who instigated our meeting had claimed, and I was yet to figure why a man in his position would have wanted to engage with a couple of conspiracy freaks—which, I presumed, was how someone of his social station would have thought of us. The letter I’d received, which had been delivered to our magazine offices and marked Personal and Confidential, had said simply that someone of some note had expressed an interest in talking to us about Diana and went on briefly to give details of this person’s status and credential. By now I’d grown accustomed to receiving anonymous letters, phone calls, and sometimes the odd email, with offers of information, so I’d thought little of it. If we wished to accept the offer and meet the Doctor in person, the letter said, we would have to do so on his terms.
I put it to JB. He agreed we should meet him.
And so now here we were, wondering what it was the ‘Doctor’ had to say that was so unutterable we’d had to meet him here, in secret, in our own private capsule on the London Eye, in order for him to reveal it. Hopefully it wasn’t just to give us a lesson in alternative history, which was all we’d received so far.
“We were told you might be able to shed some light on the death of Princess Diana,” I finally ventured, attempting to steer the conversation in our direction. “We were told you were a special remit Foreign Office historian and—”
“You were told that?” The surprise on the Doctor’s face as he swung back round to engage us was stark, but it quickly dissolved to a look of resignation. “Oh, I suppose it scarcely matters now,” he said. “Quite a mouthful, though, isn’t it—special remit Foreign Office historian?”
“What exactly does it mean?”
“It means I was paid a lot of money to maintain the status quo. To ensure the version of history you were taught at school remains the only version of history, no matter how extreme the measures taken to keep it that way.”
“And there was I thinking we live in a democracy,” JB threw in.
“Democracy, my arse!” the Doctor shot back. “You live in a conspiracy, gentlemen, one that was born with the overthrow of the Stuart Monarchy and the founding of the Bank of England. Well that’s what they wanted, you see. The bankers, the oligarchy—that’s what they wanted. That’s why they plotted the demise of King James and at the same time funded the arrival of the Dutch usurper, William of Orange. The Stuart kings had always opposed the establishment of a central banking system for fear that the country would be taken over by the money men. Charles the First, and then Charles the Second, and then James the Second—all of them. Each in their time refused to sanction a central bank, refu
sed to give in to the bankers and hand them control of Britain. So in the end the Stuarts were dispensed with and replaced with a more, shall we say, compliant monarchy. It’s been that way ever since.” He pursed his lips, and again rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, as though remembering the moment Parliament had become a corporate puppet. It was evident the thought displeased him. “Aye,” he said, somewhat bleakly. “History will tell you the Stuarts were raving Catholics hell-bent on re-establishing Catholicism as the national religion, and that’s why they were ousted. But nothing could be further from the truth. They were ousted because they stood up to the bankers.” He threw us a sideways glance. “That, and for the legacy they carried in their blood.”
Having made his point the Doctor cast his gaze back out the window at Parliament.
“Look, I’m sure there’s a lot of truth in what you’re saying,” I said, still trying to work the man out. “But we’re not sure what all this has to do with Diana?”
“Like I said, gentlemen, we live in a conspiracy. Those who conspire at the highest level decide for us all. The rest of us do as we’re told—or pay the price.” He turned and caught my eye. “You do hear what I’m saying?”
“You’re saying Diana paid the price for not doing as she was told?”
“She upset the wrong people, Mr King. She stepped out of line. In the process she became the biggest threat to the monarchy since Bonnie Prince Charlie. I know, because my job was to counter that threat.”