Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle (10 page)

Too Far Broken

London, England

8 AM

Minute by minute, the sense of powerlessness was driving him mad. William the Fifth bowed his head, leaning into the mantle above the fireplace, and thanked God for the sedative that was allowing his wife to sleep in the next room. He’d brushed aside any such suggestions for himself, preferring for the moment a rather bleak reality to the chance that he’d be in some drugged, stuporous sleep when they found his daughter.

When they bloody well found his daughter.

William Arthur Philip Louis Mountbatten-Windsor, Patron of the Royal Society, His Majesty the Lion of Britain pried his fingers from the mantelpiece and turned to face the cluster of uniformed men seated in his study. Instantly they stopped talking amongst themselves and settled into their chairs. It wasn’t their usual Tuesday meeting, and the Joint Intelligence Committee, consisting of the heads of SIS, MI5, GCHQ Cheltham, and the Defense Intelligence Staff each looked uncomfortable in each other’s presence. The figure furthest from the king, a short, blond-haired fellow, leaned back into a corner nearest the window, fully into the wash of morning radiance.

Like the shattering blue sky over London, the newcomer himself was an oddity. He remained apart from the others, pointedly ignoring their attention. There was an edginess about him, an anxious sincerity reflected in the way he ran his fingers along the border of the mullioned window. William had no doubt the section heads guessed he was an American. He could only hope that fact remained the extent of their knowledge. Heavens knew they had plenty of other things to discuss.

The king coughed quietly. “I really must ask you gentlemen to lower your voices. My wife is attempting to sleep in the adjoining room.” With difficulty, he sat at his desk. “Brownlee, you’re saying that the Navy has found nothing?”

“Dash it all, your Majesty,” the round-faced man shook his head. “The coastline is clean, as are each of our northern ports. The outlying radar stations were rendered useless by the storms, even our redundant systems. We’re coordinating with the Americans, sir, as their equipment is superior at the moment to anything we have ready to deploy into the North Atlantic.”

The head of Diplomatic Service spoke up. “But they haven’t been informed specifically whom we are looking for, your Majesty. As decided, the identity of the princess is being kept from all possible avenues to the media.”

William nodded and turned to face another section head. “Timmon, you are certain she couldn’t have been brought into the city?”

The mustached man shifted under his king’s scrutiny while the others in the room traded dubious glances. “Yes, your Majesty, we have been over this. The discreet checkpoints established by D-11 and the Metropolitan Police this morning disrupted several illegal shipments of drugs and other illicit material, but found not a trace of Her Highness. Sir, if I may, none of the groups who could be responsible would secrete the princess here, under our noses. It’s out of the question, your Majesty. Doesn’t make sense,” he added.

The others in the room made general signs of agreement and sipped their tea. William nodded and sighed. “Quite. Very well, you all know your business. I’ll expect another report in two hours. That is all. Thank you, gentlemen.” Much to their surprise, the young king stood and shook hands with every man as he filed from the room.

When each had left, William exhaled and drew his fingertips across aching temples. “Leave us, Bethers,” he said to the suited man near the door. The guard, one of two Scotland Yard detectives detailed to the king, nodded curtly and stepped out, not quite closing the door behind him. William sighed again.

And that constituted as much privacy as he was likely to receive. He turned to the blond man near the window. “Bethers has been watching over me for years, nearly since that nasty business when I first met Jack.” Voice pitched low, he walked to the casement. “Whole bloody lot of them are walking on eggshells around their ‘boy king,’” he said sarcastically.

The other man’s lips curled as if he would speak, then he merely nodded. He was a short, hard fellow whose physique would have made him Herculean had he grown an additional six inches. As it stood, Alonzo Noel was a remarkable character. Bright, quick Latino eyes belied the leanness and angle of cheek and jaw more common among the peoples of Northern Europe. His posture indicated confidence and self-possession; it was the stance of a much larger, more imposing man, yet for Alonzo, it seemed to fit.

He pushed a handful of pale hair back from his forehead and said, “I’m so sorry, your Majesty. My clothes—I came as fast—”

William roughly embraced the other man, then released him. “I don’t care about any of that, Alonzo. Can you get her back for us?”

Alonzo blinked and licked his lips. “With all respect, sir, I’ve read the dossier and heard most of the report your men just gave. If Christine was taken out of the country, then their plans are technically—”

Again the king cut him short, grasping his shoulder, then the nape of his neck. “I think she’s here, in London.” He leaned close. “Somewhere in the city. Damn their plans and their ‘special contingencies,’ Alonzo. My
daughter’s
been taken.”

The shorter man hesitated before the king’s intensity. “What makes you think the kidnapers brought her into London? Like the chief, or whatever you call him over here, said, ‘doesn’t make sense.’” He turned to face the window, squinting against the unseasonable brightness.

Windsor walked to a recessed bar and mixed a drink. “Several months ago one of my subordinates passed a document to me, concerning some sort of plot. Came out of South America; Colombia or some such place. No, I don’t usually take notice of that rubbish, unless the Yard draws it to my attention,” he said in response to Alonzo’s unspoken question. “But my mother’s name was in it several times.”

The king continued. “The plot, or plan or whatever, had been passed over as nonsense, even though it was remarkably detailed.”

“Assassination?”

“Not only that, no. It called for the ‘elimination of national trust.’ There were a number of actions listed–assassinations among them–specific acts aimed at undermining a people’s trust in their national leaders and, I suppose, in the ideals of their culture.”

“Sounds ridiculous.”

“I thought so, too, until I read the entire document. Think a moment, how your own country was affected by that sordid business with your President a few years ago? I’ve studied the American Founding Fathers, Alonzo; how many of your countrymen truly understand what a President is anymore? Do you recall the concurrent problems in your stock market? In your military’s credibility?

William gestured helplessly. “So much of the workings of a country depend upon ethereal things. ‘Faith in democracy’ is not just a cliché, my friend. You may not recall, but England suffered a similar demoralization at the death of my mother.” He took a drink from the tumbler in his hand.

Alonzo was visibly shocked. “She was a target?”

“She was—a case study of some sort.” Windsor steadied himself against the bar, and returned to the window. “‘The true aim of any terrorist is the destruction of a belief system, of confidence in a way of life.’ Jack told me that once.”

The man at the window nodded. “That’s how they operate; instill fear at whatever level necessary to make people meet their demands. Their victims fold essentially because of fear, which is the essence of outright coercion.”

“My people, my subjects love Christine. The overall plan outlines the elimination of certain people and institutions which represent the faith of certain countries. My daughter was one. The Cuban president, Espinosa, is another.”

“Do you still have the report?”

“No, I passed the original on to the head of Six, months ago, and now he’s got no bloody idea where it is. Vanished from the archives, or mistakenly shredded. He never read it. I believe the Yard kept a copy of the targets for assassination.” William finished his drink in a single swallow. “Some of it was ranting, also. Ravings of a lunatic, decrying Western culture, the Arab nations, others. There was also some nonsense about an enormous electrical weapon. Pure science fiction.

“None of the others will act on this, Alonzo.”

“Doesn’t fit the profiles or scenarios their intelligence-weenies work so hard on, does it?”

“You’re perceptive.”

Alonzo’s nose twitched. “And in this plan you read, Christine was to be brought into London.” When Windsor nodded in affirmation, he continued. “Basically, you want me to contact Jack and try to find your daughter before whoever’s kidnapped her decides to kill her in the most demoralizing manner possible, to break the British psyche or whatever.”

“You put it so succinctly.”

The American looked away. William could see he was thinking ferociously.

“I’ll be frank, your Majesty. Jack—I doubt Jack will help. Since the accident last year—”

“He must. Make no mistake, Alonzo, you two are my last personal option. Jack must do this for me.” He clenched his teeth and swallowed, fighting the sudden wave of emotion that carried his heart up into his throat. William was so tired, so utterly empty.

He caught Alonzo watching him, and stiffened. Before he could open his mouth again, the small man spoke. “I’ll try. Comes to Jack, that’s all I can promise.” He walked to the door. “If he won’t help, I’ll come back and tear down this whole damn city myself, William–your Majesty.”

The king had regained his composure. “I’ve had a diplomatic liaison assigned to you.” He took a deep breath. “To keep me appraised more than anything else, though she’s supposed to be a crack shot. She’ll get you through customs with any equipment or weapons, and provide you with whatever you need.”

Alonzo fished in a deep pocket of his coat and withdrew an old leatherbound notebook. “I want a computer with anonymous ‘Net access, first of all. And a copy of whatever assassination wish list your people copied from the original record. If Jack’s in on this, he’s got weapons in Paris we can use. If that’s not enough we can always hit a POMCUS.”

“A what?”

“Ordnance that’s Prepositioned Outside Military Custody of the U.S., your Majesty. Caches of military equipment–weapons, ammo, trucks, all sorts of stuff hidden in special bunkers or civilian storage facilities around Europe. Very handy. They were originally put in place to resupply NATO for a month in case of a Soviet attack. Kept up ever since.” Alonzo zipped up his jacket. “I’m sure your country has something similar.” He was at the door and exited the room..

“Quite. Godspeed, Alonzo.”

The other man nodded pensively, sand exited the room.

The king looked immediately to the clock. With any luck he was wrong; the aching suspicion that Christine was somewhere in the city would be proven false and she’d be found. A scrap of evidence, a hint, a ransom note, something. He added fresh ice and poured himself another drink.

The last time anything like this had happened, he’d been fortunate beyond belief. Could it be too much to hope for another miracle, such as he’d seen all those years ago?

*

Young William hunched his shoulders and bolted for the alley, the heavy clatter of automatic weapons deafening him, shaking his bones. All his papers and art books from St. Andrew’s lay scattered on the wet cobblestones, some drenched in bright scarlet from his bodyguard’s wounds. The old man turned and fired once more back toward the figures on the other side of the Rolls, then was simply obliterated in a cloud of ruby red.

“
Keep running!” the big American shoved him from behind again, and both young men entered the alley a split-second before the Rolls Royce Phantom IV exploded. The shockwave pitched them to the alley’s other end, and both managed to scramble to their feet before the first bullet ricocheted down the narrow walls.

The American’s jacket was burning, and he threw himself backward against a wall, smothering the flames and cursing. He’d picked up a handgun somewhere, and began to fire around the corner, loosing a dozen unaimed shots so quickly they sounded as though they came from a fully automatic weapon. The prince shook his head and tried vainly to think. His hands were sticky. Where was so much blood coming from? What was wrong with his mind?

Then movement from the far end of the lane caught his eye. More grim-faced assailants.

The American saw them, too. “Um, here!” He thrust the hot gun into William’s hands, and reached down to pry at a sewer access.

“
What are you about?” The prince demanded. He’d had plenty of practice with pistols and managed a shot at the approaching gunmen.

His companion grunted and pulled at the manhole. “Can you swim?”

He wrenched the heavy slat up and half-pulled, half-dragged William down. The prince dropped the gun, slipping awkwardly into the gaping hole. There were stairs; no, a ladder of some sort, and William stuttered down it until he was standing in calf-deep water.

Above, the blond American curled into a ball, bracing against the edge of the sewer access and the half-open manhole. The thick metal bucked and screeched suddenly, and Wills heard the carom of light caliber rounds echoing in the narrow lane. Then the American dropped into the sewer, pulling the manhole shut behind him.