“There’s a story about you in The Daily Independent —” Rhys began, then hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s not good, sir.”
“Let’s have it.”
“It says that — wait, I can read it to you if you’d prefer. Let me get it here —”
“No, just hit the highlights. I’ll read it myself later.”
“It says that they’ve uncovered evidence of gross misconduct while you were in the army, and that you were brought up on charges but managed to bribe your way out of a court-martial.”
“That’s absurd,” James told him. The idea was so ludicrous, he found it difficult to imagine anyone taking it seriously. “Not only that, it’s plain impossible. Couldn’t happen. You know that as well as I do, Rhys.”
“There’s more, sir,” he said, and James caught the wary inflection in his voice.
“Go on.”
“The story says witnesses have come forward who saw you do certain things in Kazakhstan — things which resulted in the charges being brought against you.”
“What things? Do they say?”
“Not specifically, no. It does say the paper is continuing its own investigations into the affair.”
“There wasn’t any affair. That’s The Daily Independent, you say — who else has got hold of this?”
“This is the only paper that comes to the house. I was just heading out to get the rest.”
“Good. Call me back as soon as you’ve had a look. We’ll do the same on this end.”
James made his way downstairs and through the big house. He pottered around the kitchen by himself for a few minutes before Priddy came in and put a stop to it. In deference to his rank, however, she allowed the King to take a seat at the table while she began preparing breakfast for the household. By the time the bacon was frying, Gavin returned with Shona, her hair still wet from the shower, bearing an armload of papers. “I don’t have everything,” she explained, spreading them out on the table. “We can get more later.”
“You do have The Daily Independent, I see,” said James, removing one of the papers from the heap. TARNISHED WAR RECORD HAUNTS KING, read the headline. While he scanned the story, Gavin and Shona quickly sorted through the rest.
None of the other papers had anything, for which James was grateful. It occurred to him that the real story behind the story was that some enterprising con artist had discovered a way to bamboozle a load of ready cash from a couple of publishers eager for a new scandal. The fraudster was probably laughing all the way to the bank.
“Well,” James said, as the three of them sat poring over the papers and sipping coffee, “it doesn’t look so bad. It’s all lies, of course, but at least it seems to be confined to two newspapers.”
“Three,” said Cal, entering the room just then. “I just read The Scottish Herald. Who the hell is feeding them this crap?”
Over breakfast, James, Cal, and the Rotheses — who were enjoying the last few days of their holiday at Blair Morven — discussed what to do about the story. “I don’t like the smell of this,” Donald declared.
Cal, angry on James’ behalf, wanted to “sue the bastards’ butts off.”
“A robust sentiment, to be sure, Calum,” Donald conceded, “but not tremendously helpful. If you like, James, I could make some calls and see what I can ferret out.”
“I’d be much obliged,” James told him. “Under the circumstances, you’ll probably want to think twice about endorsing me.”
“Not a bit of it,” Donald assured him. “Tempest in a teacup. We’ll weather the storm and come out stronger on the other end. You mark my words.”
“I’m serious,” James insisted. “You might want to wait until this blows over, at least.”
“By then, I’m afraid it might be too late,” Donald countered. “The referendum is less than four weeks away now. Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead, I say.”
Two nights ago, Donald had revealed his scheme to launch a new political party with the sole purpose of aiding the campaign to save the monarchy. He and James had spent many hours over the following days talking Royal Reform Party strategy, and how the organization might best use its influence and resources to help James in the run-up to the devolution referendum.
Donald excused himself to make some phone calls to his co-conspirators, and Caroline to pack for their return to London later that morning; Cal and Isobel went out for a last romantic stroll up into the hills; and James called Jenny.
She greeted him with a cheery hello, and said, “I’m up to my elbows in slurry at the moment, my love. The mixer broke down.”
“I take it you haven’t seen the paper this morning.”
“No, why? Something slimy in the press?”
“Slimy is right. They’re impugning my service record.”
“That doesn’t sound too serious,” she suggested. “It must be some kind of mistake.”
Later that night, as he waited in vain for any mention of the scandal on the broadcast news, James found himself agreeing with Jenny’s assessment. The television newscasts made no mention of the story. James decided that Donald was right; it was nothing more than a tempest in a teacup. Most likely, it would all blow over by morning.
The next morning, all hell broke loose.
Almost every newspaper in the country picked up on what was now termed the King’s “shameful war record.” Several of the broadsheets featured the story as the day’s lead item, and The Guardian put out a banner headline which announced SERVICE SCANDAL OF A ROYAL ROGUE. The Sun, as always, was much more succinct and to the point; their headline read simply KING RAT.
Below those charming words was a picture of the King himself in battle fatigues, gripping the upper arm of a dusky, young, vaguely Asiatic lovely in frilly knickers.
The photo was a fake. He’d never manhandled any civilians of any age, race, sex, or description in his life. Still, there it was in grainy poor-quality color. The camera may not lie, but photographs rarely tell the truth. And a desktop computer could make a barefaced liar out of even the most innocent snapshot.
If the picture was bad, the accompanying story was worse. The writers, who were evidently quite accustomed to skating close to the edge, managed to insinuate an enormous amount without ever once coming right out and saying anything actionable. The story was peppered through and through with “allegedly” and “apparently” and “our intimate sources would seem to indicate.” Nothing was stated in objective terms — it was all allusion, suggestion, and barbed innuendo.
The tale emerging from the welter of insinuation was that while a young, fast-rising officer assigned to the UN Peacekeeping Force in Kazakhstan, the King had become heavily involved with local gangster chieftains who paid him vast sums of money to turn a blind eye to their criminal activities — smuggling, drugs, prostitution, and so on — and that, on several occasions, Captain James Stuart had allowed these warlords to conduct paramilitary operations which resulted in the torture and execution of captured prisoners of war.
The crowning glory of this scurrilous claptrap was the final sentence which condemned him with a question: “If His Majesty has nothing to hide, why not come clean?”
It’s a simple journalistic technique, and one employed often enough in the tabloids. Never had James appreciated the devastating impact it could have on an individual. He read the damning words, and a feeling of impotent rage surged up inside that left him shaking.
Worse was to come.
Next morning’s press brought a real gem: “As unanswered allegations mount, and the King continues to barricade himself behind a stone wall of silence, we may be forced to the conclusion that we have been deceived by a smooth-talking scoundrel, and that our monarch is little more than a common thug.”
“Do they never get tired of slinging muck?” James growled, shaking the paper. It was early in the morning following a bad night’s sleep, and he was of a sour disposition that was not improved by his survey of t
he day’s press.
Gavin, reading from one of the dailies heaped on the table, said, “Listen to this one, sir. It says that a lengthy and thorough examination of significant documents has failed to lay the accusations to rest. They say your service record has been subsequently amended to expunge any mention of an official reprimand for what they are calling, and I quote: grievous impropriety of a criminal nature, end of quote.”
“Oh, that’s very clever,” James grumbled. “Very shrewd. My service record is clean, so that proves someone must have tampered with it.” He threw the paper down in disgust. “They must get paid by the lie.”
James, restless now, and frustrated at his inability to fight back effectively, stormed up to Shona’s office and had her put in a call to Embries, who was still in London. “Patience, James,” he advised. “It is difficult, I know, but the truth will win out. You must believe that.”
They talked for a few minutes more, and Embries assured him that he was doing everything he could to discover the source of the scurrilous stories. James hung up no better for the encouragement; the appeal to truth was all well and good, but meanwhile the accusations and allegations mounted. The heat increased, and James simmered in a stew of anger and exasperation. Jenny phoned regularly with offers of tea and sympathy, but James insisted she was well out of it. “You know I’d love to see you,” he told her, “but if those jackals got so much as a glimpse of you, you’d be dragged into this quagmire with me.”
“Do I care?” she replied, the defiance in her voice filling James with pride. “If I want to see my sweetheart, I’m not about to let a bunch of slimeball sleaze merchants stand in the way.”
“We can thank God they haven’t caught wind of our engagement,” James told her. “Until they do, we’re going to have to stay away from each other.”
“I think it stinks,” Jenny told him. “You can tell them all I said so.”
The media mob, frantic for the next new scoop, disregarded their previous agreement with Shona, swarming the road, drive, and yard outside Castle Morven. The local constabulary did their best to keep the journalists in check and the merely curious moving, but there were so many it was all they could do to maintain a clear path to let legitimate traffic through. Shona, furious at the outrageous disobedience of her orders, flew around like a harpy in search of victims to devour. Inundated by frenzied demands for information, she was forced to disconnect all the phones with listed numbers in order to keep the ceaseless ringing from driving everyone mad. Meanwhile, Cal and Mr. Baxter mounted a ground war to keep reporters from jumping the estate walls or sneaking down through the woods.
The photographers were growing increasingly aggressive and obnoxious. Setting stepladders against the wall, they kept their megazoom lenses trained on the doors and windows day and night, hollering constantly for someone to come out and give them “five minutes, just five minutes.” The mere shadow of a figure in window or doorway was enough to trip flashguns and set motor drives whirring.
To pass the time, the castle prisoners watched the various news broadcasts, restlessly clicking through the channels to catch the latest gossip — or, as one of the presenters put it: “the latest developments in this deepening crisis of confidence in our beleaguered monarchy.”
“At this hour,” said a reporter stationed outside in the winter darkness, “the uncrowned King sits besieged behind his high walls — high walls which cannot keep out the deepening scandal surrounding his rumor-plagued reign. Tonight fresh allegations have surfaced linking money from drug-dealing and other criminal activities to the King’s Blair Morven estate.
“These new allegations bring into serious question the ability of a junior officer in the armed forces to fund a lifestyle far in excess of the salary for his rank and seniority. Further, it has been suggested that the proceeds from His Majesty’s illicit dealings have, in fact, gone to finance the acquisition of Castle Morven, and subsequently played a large part in securing his kingship.”
“Finance the acquisition, my butt,” James grumbled. “If I had even half the money they say I’ve got, I’d buy my own newspaper and everybody could read about what crap merchants these hacks really are.”
“Dogs running to their own vomit,” said Cal. “Say the word, Jimmy, and I’ll get a bunch of them in here and knock some heads together.”
“Shona’s working on a categorical denial,” Gavin offered, trying to sound hopeful. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll make them eat every column inch.”
“The damage is already done,” James concluded. “Even if I go on to prove every last accusation false, half the people will still believe I’m a criminal — and the other half will always wonder. Once the doubt has been created, it taints everything, and it lasts forever.”
With each new “revelation of shocking misconduct,” James’ confidence drooped a little lower. Shona’s, however, seemed to expand accordingly. “Some of those people out there are going to be very sorry they chose journalism for a career,” she vowed darkly. “When I find out who started this libel fest, I am going to have their heads nailed to the Press Association door.”
She threw her clipboard onto the untidy stack of newspapers Gavin had gathered through the day. “I’ve seen every story,” she indicated the papers, “and I’ve tracked each new wrinkle as it has developed. I think I’ve got an idea how this is spreading.” Taking up her clipboard, she handed it to the King. “I’ve noted a number of repetitive phrases and marked them in this column. Then, I cited individual newspapers here.” She pointed to a second column.
Pulling a mobile phone from her pocket, she began punching in numbers. “I’ve got a call in to one of my moles. I’m going to check with him now to see what he’s found out. Won’t take a sec.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
James wandered off to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. When he returned, Shona announced, “It’s a smear job, Your Highness. Vicious and nasty as they come.”
“Was there ever any doubt?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Never mind. Tell me what you’ve found out.”
“Have a look at this,” she said, extending her clipboard. “Gavin’s compiled a rough list, and it shows pretty much what I expected. I’ve put him to work tracking down the individual reporters; we’ll have a list of those next.”
Taking the clipboard, James saw that two phrases jumped out: “compromised command hierarchy” and “overreached UN conventions,” and several others. The first had been used in no fewer than six papers, and the second in five; the others had been used in two or three each.
“Setting aside all the rest as coincidences,” she said, tapping the remaining list with a short finger, “these two are proof enough.”
“That the stories are made up?”
“That the stories all derived from a single source,” she said, perching on the arm of the chair. “Most journalists — when they’re copying someone else’s feed — take care to dress it up a little. Professional pride, you know? Sometimes, though, they come across a word or turn of phrase they sort of like, right? Well, the dimmer ones can’t improve on it, and the brighter ones can’t resist having everyone think it’s theirs. They’re like magpies: they see a shiny bauble and they gotta have it.”
“So this repetition means they all took their information from a single source.”
“They’re all singing off the same hymn sheet.” She rapped the clipboard in James’ hands for emphasis. “Someone supplied them with information to get the ball rolling — probably not all of them, but more than one.” She paused, and James returned her notes. “My best guess is that somebody’s set up a drip feed and is giving out carefully measured does to keep everybody hooked and happy. Very crude.”
“But effective, it would seem. What can we do about it?”
“I say we issue a statement and call them on it — demand to be shown the smoking gun, as it were. Challenge them to put up or shut up. If there is any
thing of substance, they have nothing to gain by keeping it from us. If they refuse to bring out the evidence, it will make them look bad. Either way, we’re no worse off.”
“I’ll think about it,” he told her.
Shona’s mobile phone chirped just then. She answered it, and handed it to James. “It’s Embries.”
“Shona has informed me of her investigations,” he said. “Added to what I have discovered, I can say that this appears to be the work of someone in, or very close to, the Waring government.”
“You’re sure?”
“Reasonably certain, yes. The trail, as expected, has become very muddy. There have been so many feet tramping about in this, absolute certainty is no longer possible. Rhys and I are returning to Blair Morven first thing tomorrow morning. Do nothing until I get there.”
James called Jenny again later that night. They spent an hour on the phone together. He told her what Embries had said about the likelihood of the Waring government being involved in the smear campaign. “I never liked that man,” Jenny replied. “I would love nothing more than to rub his face in it the way he’s rubbed yours.”
“I love you, too,” James told her. “Embries is coming back tomorrow and we’re going to figure out what to do.”
They said their good-byes then, and James went to bed and rose the next morning to face yet another day of infamy in the nation’s media.
Thirty-five
The morning’s crop of newspapers brought no joy. The accusation of service misconduct and subsequent cover-up was repeated in no fewer than four papers. It was cold comfort that some of the more respectable news organizations declined to run anything more than lengthy reports of the other papers’ investigations.
Both The Times and The Guardian, in a rare moment of agreement, called for a full public inquiry into the King’s affairs since leaving the service. The Observer and Evening Standard looked gleefully ahead to the impending referendum, and predicted a resounding victory for what they called “the spirit of new republicanism” which they insisted was sweeping through the land. The Daily Star offered readers a chance to win a holiday in Florida by guessing most closely the number of votes that would be cast against the King on Referendum Day.
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