The Cut-Out

by Jon King

  “That’s not true, Jon, and you know it. You’ve been fighting for what you believe. You’ve been fighting to uncover the truth.”

  “Yes, but that’s exactly what they wanted me to do.” I could see by the look in Katie’s eyes that I wasn’t making much sense. I tried to explain. “The CIA guy, the one I told you about. He was here tonight. He told me I’d been set up.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Well, I…”

  She moved closer, laid her hand on my shoulder and spoke directly to my eyes. “You know what I think?” she wanted me to consider. “I think they’re worried. I bet they thought you’d have given up by now, that you’d have written a few articles, a book maybe, given a few interviews and left it at that. But you’ve done so much more.” She paused, holding my gaze as though to make sure I was hearing her, taking in what she was saying. “You’ve given people hope, Jon. You’ve given them a voice. Look at how they’ve responded at your talks, your book signings, the radio phone-in shows. It’s as if they’ve been waiting for someone to come along and champion their cause, because by themselves they’re not able to. That’s what you’ve done for them.”

  She scooped up my folder from off the table next to us and pulled out a thick, multi-page document containing more signatures than I cared to count. It was a copy of our petition for a public inquiry into Diana’s death.

  She held it up to my face. “When people sign this petition it means something to them,” she wanted me to appreciate. “You can’t take that away from them, not now.”

  “But it’s all such a lie. Now I know that we were set up it all just seems so futile.”

  “That’s exactly what they want you to think,” Katie pressed. “That’s why the CIA turned up tonight—to make you feel exactly the way you’re feeling now. To try and make you give up.”

  She was right, of course. I knew she was right. But it didn’t alter the fact that I’d been played like a novice for the past four years and that, even now, if I decided to go back out on stage and deliver the second half of my talk I’d be kicking against a machine too big and too powerful to make even the slightest dent in its armour—the slightest difference to the fact that, ultimately, it would win. It didn’t change that fact at all. Did it?

  “You can’t give up now,” Katie insisted, cupping my face firmly in her hands and pulling me towards her. “You’d never forgive yourself. I’d never forgive you.” She paused. She kissed my lips. And then she said: “Do it for me, Jon. Do it for us. Don’t let them think we’re weak.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Within minutes of talking to Katie I was waiting in the wings at the side of the stage, watching a much relieved JB introduce the second half of my talk. The reason he was much relieved, of course, was that he was able to re-introduce me to the audience rather than have to explain to them my sudden absence. He had Katie to thank for that.

  “Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, can I ask you to please welcome back on stage your main speaker for the evening, Jon King.”

  As the auditorium gave up a chorus of expectant applause, JB turned and started back towards me, exiting to the wings as I stepped defiantly out on stage. My face was deadpan. In my mind I was frantically rewriting the second half of my talk. If I was to disregard the American’s warning and deliver my talk anyway, I’d told myself, then I may as well go the full monty.

  Ordinarily the second half of an evening such as this one would have spotlighted motive. I had, after all, spent the opening hour or so presenting evidence that Diana had been murdered, and it followed that, in support of that evidence, I should explore the question of why she might have been murdered and by whom. This, on any other night, would have been the trusted format. But of course this night was different. This night the CIA had turned up and warned me, on pain of character assassination – or worse – that I should discontinue my investigation forthwith, in particular my attempts to force a public inquiry, and I’d come oh so close to acquiescing to that warning. Giving up. But as Katie had just minutes before pointed out, the very fact that the American had come here and warned me in person, face to simmering face, surely meant that he and his bully boys were more than a tad concerned that my efforts were gaining converts. That they were having an effect. Perhaps because of this, or perhaps because of my unexpected tête-à-tête with the American and the adrenaline overload our confrontation had stimulated in me – or perhaps simply because I felt inspired by Katie’s timely intervention – this night I’d decided to do things differently.

  Which is why I’d decided to rewrite my talk.

  Making my way purposefully back out on stage I positioned myself once again behind the rostrum and peered out nervously at the audience. My mind was deafening. Their silence was deadly. Glancing down I saw that JB had laid my folder open on the rostrum in front of me. I cleared my throat, and peered back out at the audience.

  “I came here tonight with my speech all prepared,” I said, a little shaky, holding my folder up in full view of the audience, then closing it, replacing it on the rostrum and pushing it to one side. “But an unforeseen circumstance has demanded a change of plan. Instead of continuing with my pre-prepared speech, therefore, and examining the possible motives for Diana’s death, I intend to take you on a journey, an ill-fated journey: a journey of conspiracy, treachery and murder. Frame by frame, move by duplicitous move, I’m going to tell you exactly what happened on that fateful night in Paris—exactly how events unfolded, and who orchestrated them.” I paused, and realized as I did so that my nerves were no longer fighting me. Suddenly I felt strong. “Simply put, ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to show you exactly how Princess Diana was murdered, the smoking gun—exactly how she was murdered and by whom.”

  In the front row I saw Mark and JB exchange puzzled looks as several heads turned in the audience and murmured inaudibly. What does he mean? Beside Mark, Katie smiled, her eyes misting with pride.

  “Saturday, August thirty-first, nineteen-ninety-seven. According to the Ritz security cameras it was precisely four-thirty-five pm when the Mercedes carrying Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed arrived at the Ritz Hotel. Immediately mayhem broke loose as the waiting pack of paparazzi jostled for position, cameras levelled, the photographers bustling and barging their way to the front in their efforts to shoot their prey…

  “…But it wasn’t only the paparazzi who had the couple in their sights. There were other faces in the crowd outside the Ritz that afternoon, monitoring events, orchestrating proceedings, feeding information back to the MI6 command centre secretly located at the British Embassy, Paris. Two of these faces in particular would play key roles in events later that evening: French paparazzo and long-term MI6 agent, James Andanson, and MI6 Head of Special Operations Europe, Richard Mason. Both would play their part in the operation now starting to unfold. Both would be present in the crash tunnel at the operation’s conclusion. Only one, however, would have the princess’s blood on his hands. And that was Richard Mason.”

  Scanning the auditorium I could see the crowd was breathing as one. I felt myself breathing with them.

  “Shortly after seven pm the couple left the Ritz Hotel and were driven across town to Dodi’s apartment. As their vehicle disappeared along Place Vendome, Henri Paul left the Ritz Hotel and made his way to a prearranged rendezvous with his British and French intelligence handlers. The pieces of a carefully laid plan were now starting to fall into place. For that plan to work, however, Diana and Dodi would need to change their own plans for the evening…”

  Dodi’s Apartment, Rue Arsene Houssaye, Paris – 7.14 PM

  The scene was pandemonium. Close on 100 paparazzi on scooters and mopeds were laying siege to Dodi’s apartment, swarming like rats outside the uptown apartment block just off the Champs-Élysées. They were waiting for the arrival of a princess and her lover. Word had filtered through that the couple had just left the Ritz Hotel and the rat pack had acted accordingly, cutting across town via Place de la
Concorde and scything their way through the Champs-Élysées traffic jam on their two-wheeled vehicles in a way that was impossible for Diana’s Mercedes. Among the rats assembled outside Dodi’s apartment, King Rat and his minion.

  Mason put his mobile phone to his ear and threw a furtive glance over at his minion, Andanson. Do exactly as I told you. The paparazzo was seated astride his BMW motorbike smoking a cigar, his camera slung and ready for use. He acknowledged Mason with a furtive glance of his own.

  Then: “Henri Paul went off-duty shortly after the couple left, about two minutes ago. He should be with his French contact in twenty minutes. He’ll rendezvous with us later.”

  “Affirmative,” Mason said into his mobile.

  “How are things your end, sir?”

  “I would say everything is perfect,” Mason reported, scanning the madness happening before him. Though he’d kept a discreet distance between himself and the madding throng, he could still feel its pulse running through him. “It’s absolute mayhem here. There’s no chance they’ll be able to keep to their plans and eat at Chez Benoit restaurant tonight, not with this lot in their faces.” Again he scanned the hysterical mass of cameras and their owners. “No, they won’t be dining anywhere but the Ritz tonight.”

  I scanned the audience. They were with me; I could feel it. They were with me on the streets of Paris and they were with me here, now, in the conference centre—eyes attentive, tongues stilled, a sense of real-life drama gripping them, as though my words were being played out on the screen of their minds as I spoke them. I picked up the story as Diana and Dodi were driven back across town to the Ritz Hotel.

  “At nine-fifty-one the couple arrived back at the Ritz for dinner. Their plan to eat at their favourite restaurant, Chez Benoit, where Ritz manager Claude Roulet had earlier booked a table for them, had been thwarted by the increasingly frenzied pack of paparazzi camped outside Dodi’s apartment. Indeed, as they left the apartment and began their intended journey along the river to Chez Benoit, that same frenzied pack went with them, swarming all over their car, yelling and barking like a mob of unruly savages and firing off round on round of flashgun bullets through the vehicle’s tinted windows. The couple were terrified. So much so that Dodi instructed his driver – in this instance Dodi’s regular chauffeur, Philippe Dourneau – to forget about Chez Benoit and drive them directly back to the Ritz instead. They would eat there in relative safety…

  “…But here’s the thing. If the Ritz security staff were caught off-guard by the couple’s unexpected return, strangely, the paparazzi were not. Around a hundred rats were already there and waiting as the Mercedes pulled up outside the hotel entrance. It was as if someone knew of the couple’s movements even before they did.” I paused for breath, and to accent what I was about to say next. “I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that someone was MI6.”

  As row by row the audience realized the implications of that last statement, a gust of strained whispers scurried around the auditorium, heads turning and posing their questions to the person sitting next to them. The whispers lasted only a short time, true. But the questions they posed echoed in the hall for a good deal longer.

  Ritz Hotel Underground Garage / Place Vendome, Paris – 11.38 PM

  The Mercedes S280 that would shortly drive Diana to her death looked almost out of place down here in the Vendome underground car park. Parked up on Level Three of the Ritz Hotel’s exclusive five-storey parking garage it nestled anonymously among a dazzling array of supercars—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bugattis, McLarens. Against these refulgent roadsters the S280 looked decidedly ordinary.

  Not that this mattered, of course, not to Richard Mason anyway. How favourably the Mercedes compared to some of the most expensive and fashionable vehicles ever built was the least of his concerns. The MI6 fixer was concerned only that this particular limo was the perfect machine for the task ahead. Quite frankly, so far as Richard Mason was concerned, nothing else bore any significance at all.

  Closing the driver-side door Mason ran a gloved hand along the S280’s smooth, burnished surface. Perfect, he told himself. Just perfect. Unarmoured. Cumbersome. Too slow to outrun the chasing pack. And fitted with the necessary technology to make it crash. He flicked open his mobile phone.

  Three storeys above Mason, in Place Vendome, outside the front entrance to the Ritz Hotel, MI6 officer David Wilkinson was mingling with the increasingly restless pack of paparazzi as they waited for their quarry to emerge from the hotel. Word had reached them that Diana would appear soon, and tensions were already high, each paparazzo to a man primed and ready to attack at the first sight of the couple emerging from the hotel and stepping down those famous red-carpeted steps. The protocol was set. First come, first served; first to the front, first to get that elusive photograph that would change forever the life of at least one of the hungry rats. And his bank balance. As if to accentuate this rat-eat-rat protocol a sudden rush of excitement exploded at the front of the pack, and then just as suddenly subsided to groans and frustrated shakes of the head as the pack realized the couple just emerging from the hotel and climbing in the back of a waiting limo were mere TV stars. Nothing more. A few random flashes as the celebs drove off and attention was instantly back on the entrance. The real stars were yet to emerge.

  Just then, Wilkinson felt a vibration in the inside pocket of his jacket. Separating himself momentarily from the simmering pack he pulled out his mobile phone and put it to his ear. Three storeys beneath him, Mason barked an order.

  “Get a message to our man in the hotel,” he instructed Wilkinson. “We need to be notified of the exact departure time.”

  “All in hand, sir,” Wilkinson reported. “Our man reports DT at ten minutes after midnight, in half an hour’s time. They’ll leave by the rear door.”

  “Is our man in place?”

  Wilkinson shot a glance and nodded once at James Andanson, seated astride his BMW motorbike over by the entrance to Cour Vendome. On Wilkinson’s signal Andanson kicked his bike to life and headed off along the narrow, one-way road, heading for Rue Gambon at the rear of the building.

  “Sir,” Wilkinson replied. “Our man’s in place. Is everything go with the chauffeur?”

  “Henri Paul? He’s had his money, if that’s what you mean. He thinks he’s driving them back to Fayed’s apartment, then going home for the night. That’s all he needs to know.”

  “But we’re sure he’ll take the planned route?”

  “Of course. With all those paparazzi on his tail he’s hardly likely to negotiate the traffic in the Champs-Élysées, is he?”

  “No, sir.” Wilkinson cleared his throat.

  “What about logistics?” Mason wanted confirmed. “All go?”

  “Yes, sir. Delta’s in place to block the route off Concorde and Alma. The K Team are with the Uno now. They’ll be waiting at the entrance to the tunnel.” He paused. “All we need now is for them to take the right car.”

  “Oh, they will,” Mason assured him. “Our man will be here in precisely twenty-four minutes to run it up to the hotel. From there Henri Paul will take over. All comm channels quiet from now on.” He cut the call and replaced his mobile in his pocket, then ran his gloved hand over the vehicle’s gleaming paintwork one final time, this time almost lovingly. In his eyes, violence. “Shame to destroy such an elegant body,” he said aloud to himself. And then he said: “Still, she shouldn’t go round shagging oily coons, should she.”

  Pocketing his hands he then headed off towards the elevator.

  Some twenty minutes later, Acting Deputy Head of Security for the Ritz Hotel, Henri Paul, stepped into the Imperial Suite’s private elevator and its doors swished closed behind him. Once inside he dipped his hand in his jacket pocket and retrieved a plain, white envelope that bulged slightly with the thickness of its contents. Momentarily he caught a glimpse of himself in the elevator’s gold-framed mirror, a fitting symbol to the hotel’s extravagant façade, he mused. He grinned wryly at his own gilt-
edged reflection, then peered back down at the envelope, his wry grin melting to a contented smile as he slid a chubby finger along the back of its sealed flap and opened it. He didn’t bother to count the money; he knew the wad of used bank notes leering back up at him from inside the unmarked envelope would amount to the same 2500 French francs he was always paid for this kind of job—for acquiring information on the hotel’s high-end guests and passing it back to his handlers. On this occasion the information had been requested not by the French DST, as was customary, but by MI6, and the high-end guests of interest to Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service were of course the princess and her playboy lover, Dodi Fayed. Henri Paul was, this minute, on his way up to collect them. Due to the media attention they’d received earlier that day the couple had elected to dine back at the Ritz Hotel—not in the hotel’s l’Espadon restaurant, but in the privacy of its most sumptuous suite of apartments, the Imperial Suite. Having feasted and rested, they were now preparing to head back to Dodi’s apartment on Rue Arsene Houssaye, just off the Champs-Élysées, where they planned to spend the night. Even though officially off-duty, Henri Paul had been called back to the hotel specifically to act as their chauffeur, a task he was regularly called on to carry out by his secret paymasters, the DST. After all, following dinner and drinks, tongues were prone to loosen in the back of the limo, making his task of eavesdropping information all the easier.

  And significantly more rewarding.

  As he resealed the envelope and slipped it back in his jacket’s inside pocket, he couldn’t help but gloat just a little on the enviable fortune his work as an intelligence asset had brought him over these past few years. In French francs he was already a millionaire, secretly, and that meant early retirement was no longer a pipe dream, but a choice he’d already made. That pleased him. He was now counting down the months, looking forward to the day when his final assignment was behind him and he could put his feet up, for good. He knew that day was close.