Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

Knight was confused — why would Morgan go it alone, unwilling to disclose his intent, but leave the electronic signature of his whereabouts?

“Where is he now?”

“Well, that’s odd.” Hooligan frowned, looking again at his screen, and then to Knight. “He’s at Horse Guards.”

Jack Morgan pulled his car off Whitehall and into Great Scotland Yard, where he spied a parking space beside the Clarence pub. It was a private spot, but Morgan took care of that by giving the pub’s bouncer a handshake loaded with a couple of fifty-pound notes. Then, with the lightest of rains falling on his skin, he walked back onto Whitehall, and in the direction of Horse Guards Parade.

The majesty of London had always impressed Morgan, and its effect was even more striking at night. The buildings that lined Whitehall had been part of the seat from which the British Empire had been ruled. It was now home to the Ministry of Defence, the road itself watched over by statues of men who had led British armies to great victories overseas. Morgan’s eyes glanced over the brass plaques as he walked, recognizing the names from lessons he had been taught as a young Marine Corps officer: Earl Haig, who had presided over the slaughter in the trenches; Viscount Montgomery, who had turned back Rommel’s Africa Korps, before serving beneath Eisenhower in Europe; the Viscount Slim, who had routed the Japanese in Asia. All leaders who had been blessed with remarkable men and women to serve under them, just as Morgan had. Looking at their faces, Morgan wondered if they suffered as he did when any one of the people under their command were hurt, or died in the line of duty.

Morgan looked away from the statues, his eyes drawn to a brilliantly lit up structure in the road’s center. It was the Cenotaph, Morgan remembered — the central point of remembrance for all British and Commonwealth fallen soldiers. Jane had told him that when they had walked these streets together, looking for vulnerabilities in security ahead of the Trooping the Color parade, where kidnappers had threatened to execute Abbie Winchester should a ransom for her release not be paid. It was during those hours alone with her that Morgan had begun to develop an attraction for Jane Cook that was more than physical, and her memory had drawn him here. Their time together had been as short as it had been electric, and Morgan wanted to feel her presence as he sought out the road ahead. He wanted to recall memories of her that were exciting and promising, rather than the grotesque images of her death.

His feet crunching on the stone of Horse Guards Parade, Morgan closed his eyes and tried to imagine her own set of footsteps beside his. Then in the center of the square he halted and raised his face to the sky.

“I’m sorry, Jane,” he whispered to the night. “I’m so sorry.”

He breathed deeply, holding back tears behind closed eyelids. He knew he had become a runaway train, and that he had to hold back his emotions — or at least channel them — if he was to bring justice to Jane’s killers. Killers , because now he knew the face of Flex’s accomplice.

Morgan breathed out and opened his eyes. The square about him was deserted, the magnificent buildings surrounding him standing as proud as Guardsmen in their lit-up glory. Such a sense of history and scale helped to focus Morgan’s mind. How many men who had stood on this square had gone on to war, never to come back? They had taken on danger and death because they had believed in a cause — a mission. Morgan’s mission was one he believed in with every fiber of his being: to avenge Jane. A strange sense of calm settled upon him as he realized, without the slightest trace of doubt, that he would die to avenge her.

“There’s no other way,” he said out loud.

And so, resolved to his mission, Morgan’s boots crunched the gravel as he strode toward the arched gate of the parade ground, and out into his war. If he was going to win it, though, he’d need firepower.

He pulled out his phone and called an unlikely ally.

The summer rain had stopped by the time Morgan had walked to the Thames Embankment, the few puddles left in its wake shimmering beneath the street lights, as the breeze coming off the wide river plucked at their surface.

He was guided to his destination by the stone structure that stood sentinel over the river. At the monument’s head was a gilded bronze eagle. It was the Royal Air Force’s memorial, and Morgan had met a man here before, two summers ago.

That same man was here again to greet him now. “Good evening, Morgan,” he said.

“Good evening, Colonel,” he replied to De Villiers. “How’s Lewis?”

“She’s demanding we let her out of the hospital so that she can go after them. She’s a bloody trooper.”

“And Perkins?”

“He’ll live. He’s damn lucky not to have been trampled to death in that stampede.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Morgan. “I don’t think the Princess is in danger, but you should probably hold back on public appearances until this is over.”

“Of course,” De Villiers agreed. “She’s already been moved to a safe place.”

“Where?”

De Villiers ignored the question.

Morgan turned to face the Thames. On the opposite bank stood the huge wheel of the London Eye — how many happy couples on there? Morgan wondered. How many couples for whom death would be something to be confronted in their eighties, and at a bedside?

“Have you brought me what I wanted?” he asked.

“I haven’t,” the Colonel replied.

Morgan turned his head sharply toward the other man. “Then why are you here? I don’t have time to waste.”

“And it won’t be wasted,” the Colonel promised. “But this isn’t Texas, Morgan. One doesn’t simply walk into Walmart and leave with a trolley full of guns.”

“You wouldn’t need to go to Walmart, Colonel. You’re the head of royal security, and a solider. You have access to armories.”

“Well-secured and — monitored armories,” De Villiers added.

Morgan’s burning glare prompted the Colonel to explain himself, and in a hurry. “Do you want the police and the army’s special branch breathing down our necks from the moment I walk out of the armory? You’ll get your weapon, but you’ll do things my way.”

De Villiers pushed a folded piece of paper into Morgan’s pocket.

“What’s this?”

“The address of a place where you can find what you want.” Morgan raised an eyebrow in question.

“It’s an illegal-club-slash-drug-den,” the Colonel explained. “High end. I’ve had to pull a few of our wards out of there over the years.”

“How do you know I’ll find weapons?”

“Because I’ve had the bloody things pointed in my face when I came in the back door unannounced. Believe me, Morgan, you’ll find what you need there. Their security will be holding them.”

Morgan considered it for a moment. “What about police?” he asked.

“I told you, it’s high end. The people there are people that matter. The police give it a wide berth.”

“You’re sure?”

“I once saw the retired head of Scotland Yard in there, Morgan. I’m sure.”

Morgan shook his head and snorted. The hypocrisy of the world and the establishment never ceased to amaze him. And yet, he had to remind himself, there were many good men and women in such archaic institutions, doing good work in a corrupt system. Despite first appearances, Marcus De Villiers was showing himself to be one of them.

“Thank you for doing this for me,” Morgan told the man.

“No offence, Morgan, but this isn’t for you. This is for Lewis and Perkins, and for Cook.”