by Jon King
“The threat posed by Princess Diana?”
“In part, aye. She carried the blood, you see. The genes. It was all there in the documents I looked after, the documents I was employed to conceal.” As though to consider how much he should say, and how much he should keep to himself, the Doctor again fell momentarily silent. But only momentarily. “My special remit, as you put it, was to modify the content of certain historical and genealogical documents in the government’s possession, and to ensure the continued concealment of others that would prove very damaging to the Royal Establishment if ever they were to be released—if their content were to be made public. Needless to say that won’t ever happen.”
“So what do these documents contain that’s so damning?”
“Secrets,” the Doctor said, matter of fact. “Plots. Conspiracies. More specifically, information about a certain bloodline.”
“A bloodline…?”
“Yes, gentlemen, a bloodline. Or more precisely, the bloodline, the one that rules the Western world, which is why everyone wants to possess it.” A shadow darkened his eyes as he added: “Centuries ago it was a legitimate bloodline, of course, a royal bloodline of some credential, passed down from generation to generation in rightful succession. Some even referred to it as messianic. Certainly it dates back centuries, as far as records go and beyond. It was this bloodline from which the Stuart kings themselves descended—the very reason they were so manipulated and persecuted.”
“Forgive me, Doctor,” I said. “But when you say … a messianic bloodline … are you able to elaborate?”
“Is it not self-explanatory?”
I didn’t know. Was it? Maybe I just didn’t want to draw the obvious conclusion. I moved the conversation along. “You say that certain people still strive to possess this bloodline?”
“Using everything in their power to do so, yes.”
“But how do you go about possessing a bloodline?”
“Oh, that’s simple. Marry into it, produce children, get rid of the mother.”
Marry into it, produce children, get rid of the mother.
Peering out the capsule window the Doctor bore his full glare down on the Foreign Office, and beyond, on St James Park and Buckingham Palace, standing tall and impregnable in the near distance. “It’s called viticulture,” he said. “Political and masonic viticulture—the grafting of bloodlines from one vine to another, one family to the next. Of course, this only creates a bastardized strain of the original bloodline, but it’s enough to fulfil the ambitions of those who possess it.”
“And who does possess it?”
“Let’s just say it’s in the hands of an extremely powerful mafia of families and their heirs.” He was still glaring out the window at Buckingham Palace as he added: “Interlopers they may be, but their control of the bloodline is supreme. And because it is, they occupy the seats of Western power today.”
Again I glanced across at JB. Again he shrugged. We really were quite bemused by what we were hearing—unsure whether the Doctor bore genuine secrets, or if he was simply unhinged. At this point I was running with the latter.
“You mentioned Bonnie Prince Charlie,” I said, inviting the Doctor to say more.
“Aye. The last of the Stuart pretenders, the last legitimate heir to the bloodline who carried any real threat. At least that’s the official story. You have me to thank for that.” He gave a wry smile. “If you were to read the documents, on the other hand, you would learn the real story—that in fact the Bonnie Prince had a son by a secret marriage, Edward James Stuart. In effect Edward was the first legitimate heir of the male line to be written out of history in order to protect the ambitions of the money men. But he wasn’t the last.” He sent JB and I a knowing look. “It’s all there in the documents,” he said, “in the genealogical records they contain. The entire legitimate line of descent from the Bonnie Prince—all the way to the present.”
“The present?” My mind quickly computed the ramifications of this statement. “But … that means—”
“Aye. It means the Stuart bloodline, as it became latterly known, is alive and well, as is its senior male heir in the line of the Bonnie Prince.”
“The bloodline’s senior male heir is alive today? Who? Where is he…?”
The Doctor balked slightly at this question. “All in good time,” he said. And then he said: “The point is that the bloodline has survived intact, and there are some very powerful people ready to support a Stuart revival – even a restoration – especially if it were headed up by someone with influence.” He paused. What he said next almost sucked the breath from my lungs. “You are aware that Diana was a Stuart by blood, that she too was a descendant of the Bonnie Prince and the original bloodline—?”
Diana was a descendant of Bonnie Prince Charlie…?
“—She was a bigger threat than either of you realize, gentlemen. In years gone by she would have ended her days in there.” He motioned out the window behind us, at the Tower of London, looming there over the time-tortured river like a bad memory.
I turned to JB, who seemed equally as anaesthetized as me. Where the hell was this conversation going?
I turned back to the Doctor. “Look,” I said, still trying to piece together what seemed to me now a very complex, very implausible jigsaw. “Are you seriously suggesting the Foreign Office was aware of some kind of plot to overthrow the monarchy by modern-day Jacobites?”
“Hijack would be a more accurate term.”
“And that Diana was somehow involved in this plot?”
“I’d thank you not to put words in my mouth.”
“But that’s what you inferred.”
“People can be manipulated, Mr King. She carried the blood. She also had the support of the nation, and that made her very dangerous.”
“Dangerous enough to have her killed?”
“I didn’t say that. But yes, perhaps.”
“You honestly believe Diana could have been killed because of her Stuart blood?” JB wanted clarified.
The Doctor gave half a shrug. “There were other factors,” he said. “The Fayed boy, for one.”
“Dodi Fayed?”
“Aye.”
“Because he was a Muslim?” I said.
“Precisely that.”
“But this is the twentieth century,” JB argued. “Don’t tell me you’re pulling the race card now.”
“Blood, gentlemen. Not race: blood.” He paused, just long enough for his words to embed. “You can take it back as far as you like, to the Crusades and the battle for Jerusalem. Even before that. A long way before that, to the Judaic kings of ancient Israel and beyond.” Again he fixed us, this time with unforgiving emphasis. “Our God is Jehova,” he said. “Theirs is Allah. And never the twain shall meet.”
Realizing JB and I were more than a little uncomfortable with this analogy, he added: “You must understand what I say in a political context, gentlemen. Whatever else she may have done to upset the Castle, she should never have got together with the Fayed boy. It was political suicide.”
We were reaching the end of our trip around the Eye, descending slowly to the point where we’d first stepped aboard. The Doctor turned and fixed us one last time.
“It’s all a matter of blood, gentlemen,” he said. “Stuart blood versus Windsor blood. Western blood versus Arab blood. Judaeo-Christian blood versus Muslim blood. The clash of civilizations. Politically speaking, you belong to one or the other. When she got together with the Fayed boy she crossed the invisible line.”
Our capsule was nearing the ground, and the Doctor was preparing to exit.
“Before you leave,” I said, keen to get at least some understanding of who this man really was, his motives. “Why did you ask to meet us and tell us all this?”
The Doctor thought about this for a moment. Then: “My family are Jacobites, Mr King. We go back a long way, to Robert the Bruce and beyond, even to the first High Stewards of Scotland. We are descended from the origin
al, legitimate strain of the bloodline which has since been hijacked and stolen from us. My work at the Foreign Office, well … you might say this is my way of helping to set the record straight—a sort of penance for betraying the family tradition all those years.” He reached into his top pocket, pulled out a small business card and handed it to me. “Call this number,” he said. “Give my name. Tell them you want to speak to Michael.”
“Michael…?”
“You asked me who was the rightful heir to the bloodline today. Call this number.”
I took the card and slipped it in my pocket without reading it.
“One last thing,” the Doctor turned and said, tucking his silk scarf in the lapels of his mohair overcoat. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t follow me. I’ve arranged for you to enjoy a second time around—all paid for.” The attendant opened the door and ushered the Doctor from the capsule. “Good day, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure. Enjoy the views.”
That said, the Doctor stepped from the capsule and disappeared along the gantry. We would never see him again.
CHAPTER 41
The next few months were purgatory, pure frustration, as we waited and waited for our book to arrive from America. It was now more than eighteen months late and still no sign of it, and we were seriously beginning to wonder at our publisher’s motives for failing to meet the agreed deadline. Or the extended deadline. The super-extended deadline. Any deadline.
It’ll be with you in May. No, sorry, September. It’ll definitely be with you in January. No, April. May. June…
Even our UK distributors were growing ever more sceptical, and no less displeased, at the lengthy delays, and the indefensible excuses our publisher was using to explain them.
We’ve had problems with the layout. The fonts are incompatible. Our system’s crashed and we’ve lost the entire manuscript—would you send it again?
Meantime, any number of books about the death of Diana were being churned out in the UK, each one a government mouthpiece: each one, we felt sure, lessening the impact our own book might otherwise have made had it been here on time.
Could this be the reason for the delays? we wondered. To undermine the book’s impact? Were the same intelligence agencies responsible for tapping our phones and surveilling our lives responsible for delaying the publication of our book, too?
Was our publisher part of the plot?
Had we been inclined, of course, we might have taken these thoughts more seriously than we did—might have believed a more sinister reason was lurking behind our book’s late arrival. As it was we just grew more and more frustrated by the day, the week, the month. But we did put the time to good use.
Our meeting with the Doctor on the London Eye some weeks behind us, I suddenly remembered the business card he’d given me on his departure. To be honest, until now I’d paid it scant attention. Although the all-singing, all-dancing hardback edition of our book hadn’t yet arrived in the UK, we had been sent a box of galleys (low-quality soft-back copies for promotional use), and we’d been so busy sending them out to media outlets, requesting interviews, scheduling book signings and organizing our upcoming speaking tour that, although I hadn’t totally forgotten about the card, I had consigned it to the back of my mind, mostly due to its seeming irrelevance in relation to our investigation. I was of course aware that the Doctor could have been a nut job with a fairy tale to spin; at times during our meeting he’d certainly sounded like one. I was equally aware that he could have been a government agent, a plant sent to feed us disinformation and put us off scent. But as the weeks rolled by, each one promising the arrival of our book, I found myself thinking more and more about what the Doctor had said. And the more I thought about it, I had to admit, the more intriguing it had started to sound.
As the London cab I was travelling in with JB turned into Portland Place and pulled up outside BBC Broadcasting House, I found myself feeling in my top pocket for the business card the Doctor had given us. It was still there. In that moment I reached a decision. It was a decision that would turn our investigation on its head, well and truly.
“The Doctor,” I said to JB as we made our way from the cab and headed for the entrance to Broadcasting House. It was early evening and the West End was just coming to life.
“What about him?”
“I think we should follow up the lead he gave us. I think we should phone this number.” I held up the business card I’d just pulled from my top pocket.
“I’d been wondering when you might get round to that.” JB gave a wry smile, then led the way through the big swing-doors into the foyer of the famous old building. Once inside, he took the card from my hand and slid it in his pocket. “I’ll phone the number when we get home tomorrow,” he said. “See who answers the phone. Right now we’ve got an interview to deal with.”
We headed for the elevator.
Several minutes later we were seated in the stuffy, regimented waiting area outside Studio 4, preparing ourselves for the latest in a long line of media interviews we were currently undertaking as a result of the galleys we’d sent out. Tonight’s interview was one of the biggest so far; it was being simultaneously broadcast the length and breadth of the country via the BBC’s network of regional radio stations, so we were being extra-meticulous in our preparation – scanning the latest news, tooth-combing our notes, second-guessing the questions our host might ask – although it should be said that we were fairly in the zone anyway from the string of media appearances we’d already made.
“The French Inquiry found that Diana’s death was the result of a drink-drive accident,” the host had put to us on BBC’s Breakfast Time TV show a few days earlier. “Why aren’t you satisfied with this finding?”
“Because in our opinion it’s flawed,” I’d said. “The results of the blood tests carried out on Henri Paul are completely incompatible with each other. Initial tests gave widely differing results to tests carried out four days later. They are wholly unreliable. And yet these are the samples on which the drink-drive verdict is based.”
“The French pathologist doesn’t even know how many samples were taken,” JB had added. “All we know is they were taken from the wrong part of Henri Paul’s body, wrongly labelled and stored in the wrong place. What’s more there’s no supporting evidence to show they even belonged to Henri Paul. They were never DNA-tested.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t Henri Paul’s blood,” the host had made a point of saying.
“Perhaps, but the fact that the samples were found to contain enough carbon monoxide to poleaxe a mountain gorilla must say something,” I’d fired back. “They also contained an alcohol level three times the drink-drive limit, and yet Ritz CCTV footage shows that Henri Paul was able to bend down and tie his shoe laces, chat coherently to guests, walk unaided from the hotel and drive a Mercedes S280 limousine in the presence of trained bodyguards. And this is only one of many anomalies that have never been explained. For the record, forensic pathologists at Glasgow University say the blood samples could not possibly have belonged to Henri Paul.”
“So who did they belong to, then?”
“That’s what we need to find out. That’s why we’re calling for a public inquiry.”
We were ushered inside Studio 4.
As well as being prepared for whatever our host might ask, we’d also learned to prepare ourselves for any on-air surprises—something we’d learned to do ever since our appearance on The James Whale Show some weeks earlier.
James Whale was perhaps Britain’s best-known talk-show host, and we’d been invited to guest on his show the minute he’d received our media pack. It was a popular show, with a big audience, so naturally we’d accepted, but we hadn’t expected to be censored barely five minutes before going on air. There was a live DA-Notice action on our book, we were told, which meant there were vast swathes of the book we weren’t allowed to talk about on air. It turned out this was the same ‘live DA-Notice action’ that Darren Adams of the Sunday
Times had told us about some months previously: the same DA-Notice the newspaper itself had received, and in consequence, had shelved plans to serialize our book. It really was a strange situation we found ourselves in. As the past few weeks had demonstrated all too clearly, it seemed we could do as many ten-to-twenty-minute interviews as we could eat—interviews that skimmed the surface and dealt with the less controversial, more generic questions:
Wasn’t it the paparazzi who made her crash? Wasn’t Henri Paul drunk? Why would anyone want to kill Diana anyway?
But the longer, more in-depth interviews were being censored.
Our 2-hour, in-depth interview with James Whale on London’s Talk Radio was a case in point. It was Whale himself who’d informed us of the situation, explaining that the radio station had received the Notice that same day and that, even though it had been issued as a ‘guideline’ rather than an ‘order’, if the station ignored it they could lose their licence. As if to prove what he was saying, Whale opened the copy of the galley we’d sent him prior to the interview and held it up for us to see, flicking through the pages a dozen at a time. We were horrified. Page after page had been scored through with red marker pen, highlighting those sections of the book we were not allowed to talk about on air. More than seventy-five-percent of the book had been expunged, and as a result, we’d spent two hours talking about why we believed the French Inquiry was flawed and whether or not the emergency services had done a good enough job. The real meat of what we had to say never saw the light of day.
As we seated ourselves and slipped the headphones over our ears inside BBC Studio 4, then, we were kind of relieved to find this particular broadcast was a question-and-answer phone-in format. As well as being less censored than an in-depth interview, it would also give us an insight into the public mood, something we were ever keen to monitor.