Ted Bell - Warlord

Dodi patted his pocket. He wanted to give her the ring tonight. But she was right. Not here in this hotel suite owned like everything else by his father, but in the private luxury of his own Paris apartment. He was his own man now, or would be soon, anyway.

Smith saw Dodi look at his watch and then looked at his own.

It was exactly 11:37 p.m.

SMITH HAD ONLY THIS MORNING TAKEN the tiny bedroom on the fifth-floor rear at the Ritz. Siberia under normal circumstances, but perfect for his needs. Earlier that day, upon learning of Dodi's plans from his own agents on the ground at Le Bourget airfield in Paris, he'd had his engineer, Amir, set up this surveillance equipment. First he tapped into the hotel's closed-circuit TV system, forty-three cameras in all, which provided views both inside the hotel and at the front and rear entrances.

He had then powered up the carefully hidden minicams and microphones his man had installed in the hotel's Imperial Suite. He had a very expensive Ritz engineer on his private payroll and the man had done an excellent job of providing total coverage inside the suite and throughout the hotel.

He reached out and toggled a switch, quickly clicking through various camera viewpoints until he found what he wanted. He now saw what Dodi had been so upset about: the front entrance to the hotel. A frantic pack of paparazzi lay in wait, at least a hundred or more, even now jostling one another for position.

Since the rumors of a Dodi-Diana romance had surfaced days earlier, journalists and photographers had descended on Paris from all over Europe. Each one hoped to get the "money shot," a photograph that could fetch over a million pounds. He could see their riotous mood, rabid dogs going in for the kill.

Yes, he could see this turning very ugly the moment the famous face appeared at the entrance.

There were rumors Diana was pregnant. If only one of these thugs could get a shot of a small bulge in that sleek figure-the baby bump was worth millions.

Two cars were parked out front, a Ritz black Mercedes stretch limousine and Dodi's personal black Range Rover, drivers already behind the wheels. Henri Paul, the Ritz's chief of security, kept emerging from the lobby, shouting to the paparazzi, "Won't be long now, boys! She'll be out in a minute or two, so, gentlemen, start your shutters!"

Eyes flashing like shining marbles in the flickering blue video light, Smith adjusted his lip mike. He was looking at the pack of snarling motorbikes, photographers clambering onto the pillion seats behind the drivers. On the periphery of the crowd, in the shadow of Napoleon's Column, was a blue-and-white BMW K1300S motorcycle.

It was essential equipment tonight, the most powerful and fastest production bike in the world. "Omar," he said into his lip mike and saw the man astride the BMW turn his head instinctively toward the top floor of the hotel.

"Sir?"

"Change of plans."

"Yes, sir?"

"They're going to use the rear entrance. Rue Cambon."

"When?"

"Now. Hotel Mercedes, standard. That means non-armor plated, no blackout windows."

"Perfect. I'm on my way."

He saw the BMW accelerate away, slowly so as not to attract too much attention, leaving the square.

Smith toggled back to the Imperial Suite. Dodi, now dressed in jeans, a leather shirt that hung outside, and cowboy boots, was waiting for Diana at the bedroom door.

"You look so beautiful tonight. I am so lucky."

"Don't be ridiculous." Diana laughed. "I look beautiful every night. Everyone says so, or hadn't you heard?"

She giggled and took his hand, following him out into the living room beyond with a toss of her short blond hair, leaving her cares behind her in the mirror, determined to have fun.

Smith switched off his video equipment and removed his headset. Standing, he grabbed a black nylon camera bag and slung it over his shoulder. He donned a motorcycle helmet and pulled the goggles down over his eyes. The invisible man once more. Then he headed for the door. He deliberately left it unlocked because his engineer would be here momentarily to remove everything, erasing every trace of his presence.

His room, being one of the least expensive in the hotel, was conveniently located next to the service stairway. It was the work of a moment to descend to the ground floor and exit the hotel at the rear.

DIANA AND DODI LEFT THE IMPERIAL SUITE at 12:14 A.M. They descended the stairs to the back entrance of the Ritz, waiting for the Mercedes just inside a narrow service corridor. Dodi ordered Trevor outside to watch for the hotel limousine and chatted with his acting head of security, Henri Paul, who would be driving them to the apartment.

"Car's here," Trevor said five minutes later, sticking his head inside the door.

The bodyguard clearly wasn't happy. This bloody backup car, a Mercedes S280, had no bulletproof armor. Worst of all, it did not have darkened windows. On top of that, Dodi's designated driver, the Ritz head of security, Henri Paul, seemed to have spent a little extra time in the bar.

The whole bleeding thing was totally unprofessional. A cock-up of major proportions just waiting to happen, and there was precious little he could do about it. For not the first time, he decided he'd soon tell Mr. Dodi Fayed to kiss his bloody arse good-bye. He'd never been a generous boss, never offered a kind word or a congratulatory smile. And now that she'd come into his life, well-

Dodi placed his hand gently at the small of Diana's back and ushered her outside to the waiting sedan. Henri took the keys from the hotel driver and slid behind the wheel. A few suspicious paparazzi who had sniffed out the ruse now stepped out of the shadows and flashbulbs pierced the darkness. Diana lowered her eyes and shielded her face with her right hand as Trevor quickly ushered his two charges into the backseat, then climbed into the front next to Henri Paul.

Before starting the car, Henri turned and smiled at Dodi. "Managed to give most of those rotten buggers the slip this time, eh, boss?"

Boss? Dodi simply stared at him, trying to suppress his anger. This was not the way an employee addressed him, not in front of the Princess of Wales, certainly. For the first time, it occurred to him that Henri seemed a bit off. He looked over at Trevor and mimed swigging a bottle, nodding his head toward Henri.

Trevor nodded his head yes, but he certainly didn't seem decisive about it. He was angry, though, angry at everybody. Dodi was breaking all the rules, and his security team was not happy about it. For the first time in weeks, Dodi felt a ripple of apprehension wash over him.

"You're quite sure you're all right to drive, Henri?" he demanded of the driver.

"Certainly, sir. No problem at all. Have you home in five."

Dodi slumped back in his seat, taking Diana's hand and pulling her toward him. He was surrounded by idiots, but now was not the time to let another staff row spoil what he desperately hoped would be the most important evening of his life.

Trevor immediately got on his radio and gave Kez, in the originally booked hotel Mercedes at the front entrance, the heads-up that they were about to move. Two minutes later, the Mercedes and the Range Rover sped away from the front entrance on the Place Vendome. Dodi's ruse had quickly unraveled. At that point, most of the paparazzi were already en route around back to the Rue Cambon entrance where, at 12:20, Henri Paul left the flashbulbs popping and pulled away from the back entrance, accelerating rapidly up to speed.

"Seat belts, please," Trevor said over his shoulder. Neither of them paid him any mind. Sod it all, he said to himself, not even bothering to fasten his own. It was only a mile-and-a-half journey. Five minutes, tops.