by Jack Hayes
Asp yanked his phone from his pocket and checked it again. He’d been surreptitiously willing it to ring or beep with a message since the incident at his house.
Nothing.
“Only to hand over what they want,” Asp said. “No drop or meeting details.”
He tossed the mobile on the table and stared away into the room in disgust.
“There’s a further stupidity to this,” Blake offered. “Let’s say – million to one outside shot – that Harry isn’t Charles’ son. What does that get you? He’s what, fifth in line to the throne?”
“Fourth,” Asp corrected.
“Exactly,” Blake said. “So, in the ludicrous realm where he’s not Charles’ son, you take some lab report and blackmail the Royal Family. How much would they – could they – actually pay?”
Ron harrumphed.
“You’d be lucky to get two or three million dollars from them,” he said. “Start asking for any more and things get nasty really fast. They may be rich but they’re not that rich. They’d talk to aides or the Prime Minister or employ specialists and pretty soon, the blackmailer would have the British state crawling all over them.”
“And there’s no terrorist in the world,” Blake added, “not even a crazy one, who wants the SAS or SBS and combined British security services scouring the earth for them.”
“And for a payoff of just a couple of million lousy bucks,” Ron agreed. “And that’s if they pay and it comes with the risk of a 7.62mm bullet to the back of a head in a dingy alley somewhere. So why would anyone do something so ridiculous?”
Asp sat bolt upright. He reached forward and began searching the Internet frantically on his phone.
“It’s not as preposterous as it seems,” he said, fingers swiping and clicking. “There. The Human Tissue Act of 2004. It’s a British law that got passed in a hurry and creates a new crime in Britain called ‘DNA Theft’. Essentially, it makes DNA testing of British people without their consent illegal, except by law enforcement.”
“So what?” Ron said. “Plenty of countries now have laws against that sort of thing.”
“Here,” Asp replied, showing him another online article. “I remember it because we were asked by a father to test the paternity of his child a couple of years ago. The problem was that both the father and the son were British.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Ron said slowly.
“The law is extraterritorial,” Asp said. “It’s a crime for any British person anywhere in the world to have their DNA tested against their consent – except by the authorities. I remembered thinking at the time that it’s very rare for the UK to pass laws that apply to their citizens wherever they are in the world, so I dug into it. Nominally, Britain got the law because of some organ scandal involving kids – that’s what the bulk of it is about – but the paternity testing part has little to do with that.”
“You’re going to tell me it has to do with Prince Harry?” Ron asked.
“I spoke to some journalists about it after doing the research,” Asp said. “One of them told me the ‘DNA theft’ part of the law was inserted because two guys from a tabloid had tried to steal glasses drunk from by Prince Harry at a club in London.”
“That’s thin,” Ron shrugged his shoulders. “And you still get no money and run the risk of getting shot for trying. Plus, all you’ve got to do is look at Harry’s grandfather – the boy’s the spitting image of his family forebears.”
“I agree,” Blake said. “But ludicrous though the idea is, let’s assume for a moment that Harry isn’t Charles’ son – just assume it, because if it’s what the terrorists believe, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not: it’s what they’re basing their actions on. Where do we stand now? How does that help us?”
Everyone slumped back in their seats. Blake grabbed a cigarette of his own and borrowed Ron’s matches. He blew a smoke ring at the ceiling as they sat in silence.
“There’s got be something deeper at play,” Blake said.
“I could try and talk to British Intel,” Ron grumbled, shaking his head. “But both they and Dubai have been giving us the silent treatment of late. Ever since Connors took office in January, we’ve strained just about every diplomatic relationship we have. It’s that fuckchump Bush all over again.”
“I hate to bring it back to this – what about my kids?” Asp asked. “Dubai’s police and its Ceebies have no experience with kidnapping or hostage rescue. I want everyone back in one piece. Ron can’t you put in a word for me? Rustle up some Navy Seals or Deltas or something? You must have some markers you can call in.”
Ron picked up his tobacco tin. He lifted the lid with a twist of his thumb and began teasing what looked like lichens and moss into his pipe.
“My resources are stretched keeping Blake here out of the eyes of the authorities,” he said. “I’ll work to get some special forces available but I don’t know what the time frame on that will be – or whether it’s even possible; you are, after all, not even an American citizen. Blake is.”
“Would it help to remind them of the number of times I’ve done dirty little jobs for you?” Asp hissed.
“It may,” Ron said, enunciating his words carefully. “In the meantime, I think there is a clear plus in your favour – my newly returned to the fold colleague here.”
He gestured towards Blake.
“Your stories are clearly intertwined,” Ron continued. “Blake is absolutely right, this has to be bigger than it appears. Therefore, can we agree, Blake, that with my boys out there running interference for you, that you therefore owe it to Nate to work with him to secure the recovery of his family?”
“You didn’t even need to ask,” Blake replied. “I’m not letting those cigarette butts out of my sight until I know what’s going on. Asp and I are joined at the hip until we can get his wife and kids back.”
“Are you willing to hand the box and contents over to the terrorists, if that’s the what it takes?” Ron said.
“I am,” Blake said. “But only if I’m certain they’re alive and well. These bastards aren’t getting anything unless they play fair. Are you alright with that Asp?”
“Me?” Asp said. “Primarily, I want my family back. After that, anything else is up to you.”
“So, what’s your first move?” Ron asked.
“I have the floor mat from the Russian’s car,” Blake said. “There were three kinds of sand on it. I know the head of the forensics department at Zayed University. We could get access to that and narrow down where they’re holding the hostages.”
“No. That tells you were the Russians have been,” Ron disagreed. “While there’s a link between the Russians and the terrorists, there’s no guarantee they’ve been to the same location.”
“Then we’re left with waiting for a ransom meet up that may or may not come,” Asp said.
“There’s another option,” Blake replied. “We return to Asp’s house and search for additional clues.”
Asp tried to pick up his gin. His hand was shaking. The liquid sloshed over the side and dribbled onto the table.
“Christ,” Asp said, returning the glass to its coaster. “It’s slipping away from us and we still haven’t a clue what’s actually going on.”
42
3am and the streets were deserted, save the occasional Emirati teenager racing his friends along the streets in their 4x4s and Italian sports cars.
For Blake, the peculiar glimmer of Dubai’s older street lamps, together with the almost smoky humid air, often gave the city in these early hours the ambience of a hard-boiled detective film.
The fronds of the palm trees glowed at the edges with a shade of grainy-cream. The leaves were silhouetted against the lamps. The buildings had the hacienda air of suburban California.
And now the stakes all seemed very Philip Marlowe too.
Nate Aspinal drummed his fingers impatiently.
“Right here,” he said.
“You’re down this ro
ad?” Blake asked.
“No, but it’s easier to get to the house from this direction,” Asp replied.
The Audi turned into a street that would have been at home in any part of Hollywood. Even the road markings were American. The car’s headlights reflected green in the eyes of a stray cat as it scarpered from a lump of carrion festering at the side of the tarmac.
“It all seems so impractical,” Asp mumbled.
“Which bit?”
“Harry is Charles’ son,” Asp said. “There’s no real question of that, which makes this all very silly.”
“I concur.”
“But let’s assume he’s not for a moment,” Asp said. “Even then, the only way knowing that yields you any money is if he’s next in line to the throne. To get him there you need to take three people out of the equation, Charles, Harry’s brother William and then William’s child George. Once you’ve somehow accomplished that, only then do you get to hold the DNA test over Harry’s head.”
The streets thinned into a maze of smaller side roads. Nate pointed the way at each junction.
“Indeed,” Blake agreed.
“But even so – even in that narrow window of opportunity – do you even get anything then? Does anyone actually care?”
“How do you mean?” Blake asked. “Wouldn’t it create a constitutional crisis?”
“I don’t see why it should,” Asp replied. “The man’s loved. Harry’s been in the top ten UK baby names for the last decade. He’s fought for his country, for Christ’s sakes. This isn’t the young kid who wore a Nazi uniform to a party any more. Sure, he’s had his moments but isn’t that the sort of monarchy the British people would warm to? They’ve been muttering that it’s out of touch for years. Here’s a real man – a man’s man – and the British public like him.”
“There’s also still enormous sympathy for Harry based on his mother and her tragic death,” Blake said.
“That too,” Nate agreed. “Plus, even if he’s not Charles’ biological son, by definition he’s his adopted one. The family has taken him under their wing. He is one of them, not just in name but in every sinew of how he’s been brought up.”
“And you think an adopted son would be accepted as king?” Blake asked.
“Britain may not be Sweden or Amsterdam but it’s still a socially liberal, tolerant country,” Asp said. “Gay marriage, gay adoption – hell the police generally ignore pot use these days. It may take longer than it does in other parts of Western Europe but the UK is pretty relaxed and progressive. If he has the name that should be enough.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Blake said. “Take Edward – or Andrew. Would the country wear them as king?”
Asp pulled a face.
“Well, that just may be another indication of the terrorist’s thinking about the cigarettes.”
“I don’t follow,” Blake replied.
“There’s been an increasing push to change the rules of succession,” Nate said. “There are people paid to think about every aspect of constitutionality, I’m sure. There’s been that change to the law so that a daughter takes over the throne if she’s next in line rather than it go strictly through sons first.”
“There are no daughters,” Blake said hesitantly. “Charles goes to William, goes to his son George.”
“Not in our scenario where they’ve all been taken out of the picture,” Nate said. “Under that circumstance it goes to Harry and if he’s ruled out, to Andrew.”
“So?”
“Change the law that daughters take possession of the crown and Andrew loses out,” Nate said. “The crown goes to Anne.”
“The new law only affects those born after 2013” Blake said.
“You’re telling me in these exceptional circumstances,” Nate asked, “it couldn’t be made retroactively applicable? What do you think Britain would think of another Queen Anne?”
The Audi rounded the last corner and Nate pointed to his house at the side of the road, behind his familiar steel gate and high concrete fence.
“The country would have no issues with her becoming Queen,” Blake agreed. “The issue would then be what would happen to the crown when it passed to her children? Since they’re largely free of the media spotlight – that could well work.”
“Except it would never get that far because Harry would get on the throne,” Asp said, “cigarette butts or no.”
“I’m not so sure,” Blake said. “I’m open to persuasion but London is not Britain. It doesn’t matter how progressive the UK gets, in the end it all boils down to one thing: which way would the tabloids fall on the issue.”
“Exactly,” Asp said, tapping his fingers on the dashboard. “In reality it all comes down to the Daily Mail and the Sun. In our hypothetical, Harry – war hero, broad shouldered man – steps into a constitutional vacuum having somehow lost his father, brother and nephew. You’re telling me that if that’s linked to some terrorist plot, that this doesn’t lead to a ‘rally around the flag’ effect?”
Blake stopped the car in front of Asp’s home and turned to face him directly.
“That’s it,” Blake said.
“What is?”
“Why the cigarettes are so important,” Blake replied. “We were looking for something bigger. How much bigger could it be than killing everyone? Killing Charles, William, the Duchess of Cambridge and their child George? Wouldn’t a play as high stakes as that be worth a string of murders across Dubai?”
***
“You’re insane,” Asp said, exiting the car and walking to his gate.
“Those cigarettes only become useful if you get Harry closer to the throne.”
“It doesn’t add up,” Asp replied, putting his keys in the lock and opening the door to his garden.
A bright security bulb sparkled to life, illuminating the grass and shrubbery with an etherial quality. Nate Aspinal walked swiftly along the path to the door.
“How does it not add up?” Blake asked.
“Because the task is as ridiculous,” Asp replied. “Assuming you somehow circumvented the security – a silly assumption for even one of the Royals, these are people who have escorts of snipers along their travel routes – it would be tightened within hours for all the others, probably permanently. So you’d have to hit them all at the same time and how often are they together?”
“True – but being a super villain isn’t about practicality, it’s about style.”
“It still gets you nothing,” Asp said firmly. “The show rolls on.”
“And since when did terrorists care about achieving a result?” Blake said. “Did America collapse after 9-11? Sure there were wars that happened that might not have otherwise and security changes at airports and a president got re-elected who probably would have lost – however, if you’re a terrorist, the act was an end in itself. I don’t think the cigarette butts – or whose son Harry is – is relevant. All that matters is we have something the terrorists want. Everything else is garnish.”
“I don’t agree,” Asp replied. “This plot is deep. It is well thought out. It has quantifiable ends.”
Blake and Asp entered the house and clicked on the lights.
It was a mess.
Shards from a broken vase were strewn across the parquet flooring, interlaced with orange tulips. Footprints, sand left in the muddy puddles from the flowers, trekked across the wood.
“Stay by the door,” Blake said calmly. “I want to be sure everything I see is a product of the fight.”
He moved swiftly across the room, surveying the carnage, piecing together the order of events and tallying it with the details relayed by Asp.
“These were not random acts that were ends in themselves,” Asp said, surveying the carnage. “There was a plan, one that’s gone awry, sure, but a plan nonetheless.”
“How can you be certain?” Blake replied.
“Getting hold of the cigarette butts on its own speaks of organization,” Asp stated. “This
is three-dimensional chess. It would have taken not months – years – of preparation. You don’t do that unless you have an end in mind that’s bigger than the sum of the parts.”
Blake neared a window. He pulled back the curtain and grimaced.
“What?” Nate asked.
“I don’t like your taste in pottery dolls.”
“Seriously?” Nate replied.
“Yes, seriously,” Blake said, returning to the main hall. “They’re hideous. It’s like a Stephen King novel on that window ledge.”
Blake searched the white-painted walls, hoping for a thumb or finger print, left by the kind of farm labourer he’d seen at Alice’s apartment. The walls were pristine apart from a child’s multi-coloured crayon graffiti near an electrical socket.
“You may be reading events backwards,” Blake said, getting closer to the floor and scanning the footprints close up. “Your wife and kids have been taken. You want there to be meaning to this. I’ve actually faced off against these people. I’ve seen only hastily cobbled together actions, designed around a single result: getting hold of the puzzle box.”
“No, you’re ignoring the effort that’s gone on,” Nate said. “None of this smacks of a crime of opportunity. These people have been thinking this through. They have resources – think of what they’ve expended on this so far. People, cars – they’ve had enough swing to be able to play the local mobsters like puppets; that on its own implies influence that stretches across different Emirati fiefdoms, multiple families. You don’t do that unless you have a tangible goal that you’re aiming towards.”
Blake moved out of Nate’s sight and into the kitchen. He checked the back door.
“Do you lock your back entrance?” he called out.
“Always,” Asp replied.
“Then this one was picked,” Blake said, returning to the hall. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe these people are more trained and less ‘brute force with a little luck’ than I thought. We’re still no closer, though, to the big question: what is this mighty goal?”