by Jon King
How did he know these things? Who the hell were these people?
One thing was clear: the owner of the voice and the Doctor, my rationale was telling me, must have been accomplices. Or at least acquaintances, perhaps members of the same covert cabal, some or other masonic cabal maybe, or even a more official organization, like MI5 or MI6. The Doctor had said he’d spent most of his life working for the Foreign Office, after all, MI6’s official face. Maybe he’d never really left. Maybe he was still working for them, or for some other Whitehall department—who knows? As for our captor, it was patently clear that whoever he was he must have been someone with genuine muscle—someone, at least, with the means to have organized our abduction from outside the BBC building and then have us transported to this dark and deserted alleyway on the edge of London’s dockland. That fact alone unnerved me. And to judge by the look on JB’s face, it unnerved him, too.
“Look,” JB finally said, bravely, the anxiety in his tone almost palpable. “If you expect us to stand here and hold a friendly conversation you’d better think again. You just abducted us. Whoever you are you can’t go around abducting people and expect them not to object.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” the voice calmly replied. “It was the only way to ensure we met in private.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“Ridiculous but true. You’re being followed. This was the only way of ensuring that your pursuers wouldn’t be able to listen in on our conversation. What I have to say is for your ears only.”
“Well whatever you have to say, please make it brief. We have a train to catch at Waterloo, and if we miss it we’ll be stranded in London for the night with nowhere to stay.”
“There’s no need to worry about that,” the voice assured. “If you miss your train I’ll arrange your passage home. But first I want to tell you something that might provide the key to your enquiries into Diana’s death. I know why she was murdered, you see.”
“So you said.”
“I also know who did it. But before I tell you anything I need to be convinced that you’re serious in your commitment to uncovering the truth.”
“I’d have thought the fact that we’ve been constantly monitored by MI5 and MI6 for the past God-knows-how-long would confirm that much.”
“All that tells me is that you’re of interest to the intelligence services. Nothing more. The fact is you didn’t call the number the Doctor gave you. You met with him almost a month ago and you still haven’t called the number. That tells me you’re less than efficient in your endeavour, even if you do profess to being serious.”
“We’d planned to make the call tomorrow,” JB said, picking the business card I’d given him earlier that evening from his jacket pocket and holding it up in front of him, toying with it nervously as he spoke. “I have the card with the number on it here—look.”
“So why haven’t you called before now?”
“Because we wanted to give it our full attention,” I said plainly, growing less nervous as the conversation progressed, and even a little narked that now we were having to justify ourselves. “If you’ve been monitoring us like everybody else seems to have been doing you’ll have noticed we’ve been somewhat busy with media commitments these past few weeks. We simply haven’t had the time. From what the Doctor said it seemed it would involve us having to follow up new lines of enquiry, and we wanted to wait until we had a few days to ourselves so that we could do the job properly.” I paused, then added: “And anyway, you needn’t have gone to all this bother just to tell us who you think killed Diana. We know who killed her.”
“What you know is that MI6, or a renegade element within MI6, was responsible for orchestrating the operation. What you don’t know is who was personally behind it and why it was ordered in the first place.”
“We have a good idea,” JB came back. “We have our own sources. We know more than you may think, as our book will show when it arrives.”
“Ah, yes, your book,” the voice said with some irony. “I was coming to that.” A brief hiatus followed, during which JB and I exchanged anxious glances, our eyes searching each other’s resolve, then flitting back in the direction of the voice in search of its still-concealed owner. The darkness was too thick for us to make out the man’s features, but had I been able to glimpse his face my guess was he would have been chewing his lips in thought right now, mulling over what he was about to divulge next—which, as it turned out, fairly shook us to our bones. “You know you’ve been snared, don’t you,” he unexpectedly said after the short silence. “You know you’ve been trawled and netted by the shop front network—”
The shop front network…?
“—You were turned down by every British publisher worth its weight. As a result you were forced to set your sights further afield, on American publishers in particular. Eventually you were turned down by virtually all of them as well, until finally you were forced to sign your work over to … well, to the only publisher willing to take you on.”
“What of it?” I wasn’t at all surprised that he knew all this; in recent weeks we’d spoken openly on both TV and radio about our difficulties in finding a UK publisher, and about how we’d been forced to go to America in order to get our book published. It was no secret. What did strike me, though, was how meticulously this man must have been listening to our story. “What are you getting at?”
“Intelligence agencies have their own network of what they call shop fronts, companies either owned by them or otherwise utilized by them for their own purposes. Have you ever stopped to consider why this particular publisher took you on when all the others turned you down?”
“No, I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Well think about it now.”
I did, but only for a beat. “Are you saying our publisher is a shop front?”
“What I’m saying is that certain publishing houses are set up specifically to publish books that major publishers have been warned not to publish. MI6 have their shop front publishers; the CIA have theirs. Both agencies know that to ban a book like yours outright would only create more publicity, and therefore more demand for the book. So instead they make sure the book is published not by any of the major publishers – because that would give the book credibility – but by one of their shop front publishers, which are invariably smaller, independent outfits whose list includes any number of, shall we say, fringe titles.”
“You mean conspiracy books.”
“If you prefer. Either way, by association anything revealed by authors such as yourselves, anything that otherwise might be deemed serious enough to be officially investigated, is immediately discredited, and tarred with the same wacko conspiracy brush as all the other conspiracy theories out there—many of which, in particular the more ludicrous ones, have been concocted by the intelligence services anyway. It’s a game at which they’ve become particularly proficient.”
I found myself resisting what the voice was telling us, scarcely able to believe – not wanting to believe – what I was hearing. In all truth I found it difficult to accept that our publisher was anything but a regular New York publisher, but with everything else that had happened over these past few years I knew I couldn’t just dismiss the notion out of hand. “Are you sure about this?” I said, still trying to reconcile myself with the idea that we might have been duped.
“How long is the book overdue?”
“Almost two years now.”
“Long enough to lessen its impact when it finally does arrive.”
“I guess.”
“Have any British publishers shown an interest in licensing the book over here?”
“Yes, John Blake Publishing. We had a meeting with John Blake personally and he was very keen to licence the rights.”
“So what happened?”
“Our American publisher kept quibbling over the terms, unnecessarily in our view. We told him we were happy with the offer but in the end negotiations broke
down completely because of our publisher’s intransigence.”
“I see. And what about your British distributors? Do they enjoy a good working relationship with your publisher?”
“I’m afraid not, no. They’ve already said they won’t be distributing the paperback edition when it comes out because the publisher has messed them about too much already. In their own words our publisher has been ‘thoroughly unprofessional’ and a ‘nightmare to work with’.”
“Am I sensing a pattern here? Would you say your publisher is doing all possible to make your book successful? Or perhaps the opposite?”
I didn’t answer that question, not right away. Perhaps I was afraid of hearing my own answer. “But if what you’re inferring is true,” I said, finally, “that would mean we’ve been manipulated all along, from the outset?”
“I’d say we have to consider that a possibility, wouldn’t you? The powers-that-be would never have allowed your book to be published by one of the mainstream publishers. On the other hand, of course, they knew they couldn’t openly ban it, either. Publication by a shop front was the obvious solution.”
The obvious solution.
Beside me, I heard JB fold…
…A few moments later: “Look, you said you could tell us who killed Diana,” I said, gathering myself, forcing what I’d just been told to the back of my mind and attempting to move things along. Time was progressing. I was tired. There’d been no sign of the moon in these past ten minutes and London seemed to be getting darker and colder by the minute. The sooner we could get to the meat of the matter and wrap this conversation up the sooner I would be tucked up in my warm, comfortable bed next to Katie. The thought was all-consuming. “You said you could tell us who was personally behind the operation that killed Diana and why it was ordered.”
The voice didn’t reply, not straight away. Instead it sounded as though it was sucking its teeth while it considered how best to respond. It was several moments before it finally said: “I can tell you the name of the man in charge of the operation.”
“I can tell you that.”
“Oh…?”
“Mason,” I said, recalling to mind what Lacey had told me the last time I’d seen him in Hyde Park. “Richard Mason. Head of MI6 Special Operations, Europe. Mason’s not his real name, but a code name he likes to use because he’s a high-ranking Freemason. Evidently he gets off on the idea.”
The voice seemed genuinely surprised. “Very good,” it said. “Very good indeed.”
“Yes, well, like JB said, we’ve done our homework. What we really need to know now is Mason’s real name.”
“Ah. I’m afraid that’s where we all come unstuck. Like all true legends he doesn’t appear to have one.”
That’s exactly what Lacey said, I thought to myself, but didn’t say it. “So what’s the big secret then?” I said instead. “Why did Mason order the operation?”
“Oh, it wasn’t Mason who ordered it. He might have been the project manager, but the architect was someone else entirely, although of course it wasn’t just one person.”
“A group?”
“A very secretive and powerful group, yes, a consortium of, shall we say, socially elevated people—people with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. People with a vested interest in keeping the blood pure.”
“Now you’re beginning to sound like the Doctor. Cryptic was his middle name, too.”
“How about if I told you it was the oligarchy that underpins the House of Windsor and its impenetrable power-circle. Would that be straightforward enough for you?”
“Not really, no. You can’t just infer that it was the royal family and expect us to accept it as though you’ve just revealed the world’s biggest secret. Everyone and their dog has pointed their finger at the royals. You have to have evidence. You can’t just say it was Prince Charles because he wanted to marry Camilla, or that it was Prince Philip because he didn’t want the future king to have Muslim stepbrothers or stepsisters.”
“Now you’re getting warm…”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But the point is you have to back up your claim with evidence.”
“If we could do that I wouldn’t be standing here now, talking to you. It’s not that simple. The people who did this are extremely powerful. And dangerous. They will go to any lengths to protect their legacy.”
“Their legacy?”
“The bloodline. No doubt the Doctor would have mentioned it when he spoke to you?”
“He did, yes.”
“To retain control of the bloodline they would even murder a princess. Why? Because to control the bloodline is to control GOD.”
“GOD…?”
“Yes, GOD—Gold, Oil and Diamonds, the bloodline of global power. It’s not just about the royal blood, Mr King. That’s easily manipulated, and has been for centuries, as I’m sure the Doctor would have informed you. No, it’s not just about that. When all is said and done it’s about money, and power, and that means control of the world’s resources—GOD. That’s the Holy Grail of political power, though to separate it entirely from the bloodline is not possible.”
I was trying to keep with the thread. “You’re talking in riddles again. Who exactly are these people? Does anybody actually know?”
“I’ve just told you who they are. They occupy the seat of power because the legitimate heir to that seat has been usurped. I’m afraid I can tell you no more than that.”
“But you’ve told us nothing.”
“If you want to know more you must ask the prince yourself. He’s expecting you for lunch at the Balmoral Hotel in Edinburgh, at one o’clock the day after tomorrow. Now you’d better be on your way or you’ll miss your train. My chauffeur will be here in a moment to take you to the station.”
“That’s it?” I said, my tiredness – my frustration – nearing boiling point. “You abducted us and brought us here against our will to tell us this? That the prince – whoever he is – requests our presence?
“One o’clock, the day after tomorrow, the Balmoral Hotel. Goodnight gentlemen.”
As the voice turned and retreated into the darkness the headlamps of the limousine that had brought us here swung into the top end of the alleyway and shone directly on us, blinding us and preventing us from witnessing the stranger’s departure. I wanted to turn and run after him, question him further, yell at him, throttle him. But I knew it was pointless. We still didn’t know who or how many others might have been loitering in the shadows. All we knew was, whoever they were, these people were organized and potentially dangerous. Frankly, at this point all I wanted to do was go home.
“Déjà vu,” I said sarcastically to the chauffeur as JB and I climbed in the back of the limousine for the second time that evening. “Straight to Waterloo Station this time, please.”
I closed the door.
Easing myself back in the seat and snapping my seat belt on I realized that déjà vu perhaps wasn’t the most appropriate phrase to have used. After all, I hadn’t seen this night coming at all.
CHAPTER 43
It wasn’t the first time he’d broken into this apartment. On explicit orders from his MI5 field boss he’d been here before, had picked this very lock, had let himself in and installed two covert listening devices similar to the ones he was about to install now. On that occasion he’d also been instructed to locate and photograph specified personal effects—passport, bank statements, credit cards, pin numbers: and most important of all, an original copy of the occupant’s birth certificate. Due to the occupant’s naivety, and the agent’s proficiency, he’d managed to collect a full shopping bag. Bank and credit card transactions had since been meticulously monitored back at GCHQ, and on occasion, blocked; while the occupant’s passport had been confiscated and revoked. The birth certificate, meanwhile, had been falsified and reclassified as counterfeit, but unlike the passport, had been allowed to ‘float’ until such times as it might be needed to prove ‘false identity’—to show the world tha
t its owner was not who he claimed to be. That time had now arrived. And because it had, surveillance on the subject had been stepped up. Which was why the agent had returned to carry out another ‘black bag’ operation. The covert listening devices he’d installed on his previous visit had, for some inexplicable reason, stopped transmitting, GCHQ had reported, and he’d been sent back to replace them. As he ascended the refurbished Georgian complex’s outer staircase and made his way along the elevated landing for the second time that year he was again reminded of the subject’s identity. It forced a dry smile on his lips. It wasn’t unusual for MI5 to bug the homes of known ‘resident aliens’, of course, in particular those deemed a threat to the security of the United Kingdom. What was unusual, though, was the status of this alien in particular. This alien wore the title: HRH.
“Safe to go,” the voice in his earpiece told him as he approached the apartment’s front door “The subject has just arrived at the Balmoral Hotel, on schedule. He’ll be there for some time.”
“Noted.” A furtive glance left then right to ensure there was no one else about, and the agent set to work.
Dipping his hand into a built-in tool pouch concealed in the inside pocket of his sweat jacket he pulled out a flattened-steel lock-pick and inserted it into the door’s pin-and-tumbler Yale lock. Deftly, he started to feel for each of the lock’s key pins, easing each one in turn from its mooring and releasing the springs and tumbler pins that would free up the lock’s inner cylinder. Then, using the lock-pick as a surrogate key he turned that cylinder, opened the door and let himself in, being sure to close the door securely behind him.
Once inside he made his way through the reception hallway and into the open-plan lounge and dining area, where he set his eyes on the bookcase lining the far wall. Bypassing the rosewood dinner table and chairs, negotiating a careful path around the low-slung sofa dividing lounge from dining area, he made his way over to the bookcase, where he reached up and ran his fingers behind the small pile of magazines stacked precariously on the top shelf. There he felt for the air-conditioning vent-cover on the wall behind the magazines, and using the small screwdriver he carried in his tool pouch, unscrewed it. This was where he’d installed device ‘A’ on his first visit, but having removed the cover and felt inside the cavity his fingers told him it was empty. Device ‘A’ was no longer there. It had been removed.