Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

“So Colonel De Villiers told me. What can I help you with, Your Highness?”

“Just take a short walk with me. I’ve run out of grants to sign, and I think some air would do me good.”

Morgan looked toward the door of the building that housed the cellar. There was no sign of De Villiers and the answers he would bring, so Morgan agreed, falling into step alongside Princess Caroline as she paced the courtyard between the Beefeaters’ tightly packed homes.

“There are thirty-five families here,” she told the American beside her. “Some have children, and they live in the bigger houses. Then there are the smaller apartments, for the single ones. There’s more and more of them, I’m afraid to say. Service in the military seems to take a terrible toll on families.”

“It does,” Morgan agreed, his eye following a large black raven that hopped across the open courtyard, pecking between paving stones.

“Legend says that if the ravens leave the Tower, then the kingdom will fall.”

Morgan sensed that the royal was making small talk to delay divulging what was really on her mind. “You can say what you need to say. It’s just us here, Your Highness.”

“OK then, Jack. I’ve lost someone whom I loved. Thanks to you, the person responsible for taking her from me is now in custody. He will receive justice, and he will do so through the British legal system.”

The implication of the words was clear for Morgan, and he held the woman’s gaze. “Of course.”

“Do you know who brought law and order to this country, Jack? It was the monarchy. It was the Crown. Sophie? Jane? This all started with me, Jack, and I want to end it before violence is brought to our streets. I am hurting, Jack — you know how much I am hurting — and the only thing that can hurt me more is to see more blood spilled.”

Morgan took a deep breath. He respected Caroline, and his words came out evenly and under control. “I will not stop looking for Flex.”

“I’m not asking you to stop looking. It’s what you plan to do when you find him that’s scaring me. Please, promise me that when you do find him, you’ll let the police take it from there. Promise me that you’ll let the British legal system do its job.”

Morgan could see genuine concern in the woman’s earnest eyes. Concern for his own safety, but also for a greater cause — that of law and order in the country she was sworn to serve.

“Does your country have the death penalty?” Morgan asked.

“It doesn’t.”

“Then I won’t make a promise I can’t keep. I want justice, and that isn’t it.”

“Then we may find ourselves at odds, Jack.”

“Maybe we will. And I’m sorry if we do.”

“So am I.” She smiled sadly. “Good night, Jack. Whatever happens, thank you for finding Sophie.”

Morgan tried to smile in return. Then Princess Caroline turned and walked away.

Morgan stood alone in the center of the courtyard for some time after his conversation with the Princess. Except for the occasional tramp of a sentry’s feet, or the caw of a raven, the place was quiet. The Tower’s walls muted London’s traffic, giving it the serene sense of being a place of calm amidst the city’s storm. Of course, for Morgan, that was exactly what it was. Soon it would be time to go out into that storm.

De Villiers’ tall frame appeared in the doorway of one of the buildings.

“You could have waited inside,” the Colonel told him.

“I wanted to think,” Morgan replied.

And think he had done. Of Jane Cook. Of Sharon Lewis. Of Jeremy “Hooligan” Crawford. Of Peter Knight. All wards in his care. All people that, on some level, he had failed. In Cook’s case, Morgan’s actions and lack of foresight had led to her death.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not good for you.” De Villiers frowned, reading Morgan’s features like a map. “You need your head on straight, Morgan. Come on, man, this isn’t what I expected from you. Look at how you handled the people who took Abbie Winchester.”

“I’ve lost one of my agents, Colonel.” He didn’t need to tell De Villiers that he had lost much more than that.

“I know you have, Morgan. And now you have this.” He passed Morgan a sheet of paper.

“What are these?”

“Joyce has had no luck in contacting Flex directly, and he’s heard nothing from him since Jane... He’s heard nothing from him since then.

“What you have here,” he continued, “is a list of addresses that Flex has been known to frequent. And these,” he pointed, “are the details of Flex’s expected accomplice, Nathan Rider. Joyce heard that Rider had been brought over from Africa by Flex. Apparently Rider isn’t the kind of man who cares to be in a country where there is a higher kind of law than who has the biggest guns, and so the pieces fit that he’s here for one reason.”

“To kill me.”

“To try . I’ll walk you to the gate. I expect you’ll want to make use of the night.”

They walked in silence. Morgan left the way he had come in: through the small door set into the wall. As he emerged he found himself facing lengthways along the Thames, London’s skyline brilliant in the darkness.

“You have everything you need?” De Villiers asked, emerging beside him.

“I do,” Morgan replied, his eyes on the towers that were lit up toward the clouded heavens.

“Then I’ll leave you with one last thought. I’m giving you as much rope as I can, Morgan, you understand? Precise and deliberate retribution I will allow you, but...”

“I get it.”

“Good. Just remember that this is London, not Afghanistan. If you bring war onto our streets, you’ll be in our sights as much as he is. This city’s suffered a lot these past few years. Our security forces are on a hair trigger.”

Morgan nodded.

“Thank you for your help, Colonel.” He put out his hand and De Villiers took it in a firm grip.

“Get the bastard, Morgan. Get him, and put him down.”

Jack Morgan walked a mile from the Tower using back streets, main roads and alleyways. Happy that he was clear of tails, he’d put a call in to Hooligan, passing him the few addresses given up by Corporal Joyce. “Get CCTV in those areas if you can,” Morgan had instructed. “Have surveillance teams stood by, but no one is to leave Private HQ unless I order it.”

Then he had given his London team a second set of instructions. Thirty minutes later an old Ford Focus pulled up at exactly the spot Morgan had requested, the driver getting out and walking away without a backward glance. Taking a few seconds to check his surroundings one more time, Morgan pulled a carrier bag from where he had shoved it into a hedge, felt the weight of the pistols inside, and walked to the car. He entered the driver’s side, found the key in the ignition and started it up.

A few seconds later he was on his way to the first of Flex’s addresses.

Two years ago, Michael “Flex” Gibbon had run his security enterprise from atop a beautiful glass building that sat alongside the Thames. So great were the views, and so heavy his workload, that he had lived in the same building.

A lot had changed since Jack Morgan had beaten the SAS soldier down, blowing out the man’s knee and sending the rumor mill wild. Flex was a soft-arse. Flex couldn’t cut it anymore. Why were the heads of two security firms fighting in the first place? I’ll take my business elsewhere. Now Flex’s operation was run out of a town-center office in Tottenham, sandwiched between a chartered accountants and a failed business whose windows were covered with wood panels and graffiti. It was a big fall for a big ego.