Джеймс Паттерсон: Private Princess

“If they don’t, I’ll need more manpower,” he told Knight.

“I can be there in a few hours.”

“Thanks, but no,” Morgan said, abreast of Knight’s own investigation. “Stick with Sir Tony. Has Hooligan cracked the USB’s encryption yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you have to stay with it. If someone’s gone to that much trouble to hide what’s on that USB, then there must be a good reason.”

“Or a bad one,” Knight added.

Morgan heard footsteps and turned to the bedroom’s door. This time it was knuckles against the wood, not bullets. “Come in.”

It was Sharon Lewis.

She took in the sight of the sweat-shined American. If she was attracted to the man, she showed no sign. “Take a shower, Morgan. You’ve been invited to breakfast with a princess.”

Peter Knight put his phone away and poured himself another coffee. Despite having a major investigation under way, he was still responsible for the running of Private London, and so he was casting his eye over the agency’s ongoing tasks when a call came through from Hooligan’s lab. He let it go unanswered. Instead, he ran down to the facility.

“You cracked it?” he asked as he entered the lab, certain the call would be to signal the successful decoding of the USB drive.

“Cracked it?” Hooligan replied. “I’m a delicate instrument, Peter, not a hammer. I slipped inside that code like a Navy SEAL.”

Knight listened patiently as Hooligan spent the next two minutes telling him that the encryption would have collapsed in on itself and wiped the data clean had he come at it like “a bone-headed Neanderthal.”

“Nothing but class and finesse here,” Hooligan concluded.

“You have stains on your shirt,” Knight smirked, proud of his technician.

“That was Perkins’ fault!” Hooligan shouted. “He told me Millwall would win the FA Cup this year and I spat me brew out!”

Knight began to laugh, but the sound died in his throat as Hooligan tapped at his keyboard and the contents of the USB stick flashed up onto a big screen.

“Not good, is it?” Hooligan said.

Knight shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

“It gets worse.”

Hooligan hit play on a video. Knight’s jaw dropped.

Revealed on the screen, in graphic detail, was the reason for Sir Tony’s death.

Jack Morgan showered quickly, feeling underdressed as he pulled on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. The American wasn’t certain what you were supposed to wear to breakfast with a princess, but he was fairly certain that it wasn’t the rumpled clothing from his travel bag.

Morgan found Sharon Lewis waiting on the other side of the door. “You didn’t tell me she was here.”

“It’s your job to tell me things, Morgan, so that I can pass them on to her. This is a one-way system until she says otherwise.”

Morgan didn’t bother to press the issue. He could see that Lewis was dedicated and loyal to Princess Caroline to a fault — unless the royal said jump, Lewis would stand in front of an oncoming truck.

“Have you been with her long?” he asked as they walked through the barn conversion. Aside from the cameras and bulletproof glass, it could have been any other home in the countryside.

“Five years,” Lewis answered proudly.

“That’s a long time to be in the same detail.”

“I asked to stay.”

“Why?”

“I’ve worked with a lot of politicians, and a few royals. Princess Caroline’s different.”

“Different how?”

Lewis came to a stop. “The kitchen’s in there. Go ahead.”

“Do I bow?”

Lewis laughed, but said nothing. Morgan walked inside. If he was expecting silverware, waiters and a stuffed boar on the table, he was to be disappointed. Princess Caroline stood at a breakfast bar. She wore yoga pants and a hoody, and was pouring herself a bowl of cereal.

“Morning, Jack.” The royal smiled. “Help yourself to cereal, or there are bacon and eggs in the fridge. I could make you some, if you’d like?”

Morgan’s appetite had been stoked by his workout, but even had he been full, he would not turn down the chance to eat bacon and eggs cooked by the potential future monarch of the United Kingdom.

“Bacon and eggs sounds great, Your Highness. Thank you.” Morgan wondered if anyone had ever uttered those words before, thinking of what a story this would make for his grandchildren — should he live to have any.

Perhaps Princess Caroline read his thoughts. “You had an eventful night,” she said simply, laying the bacon into a pan where it sizzled and spat.

“Not the greatest room service,” Morgan said, trying to make light of it.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Jack. I really have no idea why.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t.”

Morgan held his tongue. The kitchen was quiet but for the sound of the bacon frying.

“Do you still want the job?” Caroline asked eventually.

Morgan was taken aback. Despite the danger, he had not for one second thought about backing away from the mission. “Of course.”

Caroline appeared relieved. “Then I’m sending Lewis to work with you. She’s a Welsh speaker, Jack, and that could be useful. She can also legally carry a firearm.”

After last night’s attack, a firearm on Morgan’s side could be more than useful.

“How do you like your eggs?” she asked.

“Scrambled,” Morgan answered, before pulling the conversation back on course. “Your Highness, somebody fired seventeen bullets into my room last night.”

“The police are investigating,” she assured him quickly.

“I’m sure they are, but people don’t get shot at because they’re out looking for a young woman who liked to party a little too much — even if she is the friend of a princess.”

He let the statement hang in the air, and with it the implied question — what wasn’t he being told?

The Princess broke her eyes from the American and turned back to the cooker top. For a few quiet minutes she stirred eggs in a pot, then slid the bacon and eggs onto a plate, which she placed on the breakfast bar in front of her guest.

“Eat up, Jack. It’s going to be a long day.”

The drive to Brecon was quiet. They took the Range Rover, Cook behind the wheel with Lewis riding shotgun, where she would be in the best position to react to any attack. In the back seat, Morgan regularly looked over his shoulders, but saw no sign of a tail — the winding roads of the Brecon Beacons, combined with the light traffic, made it difficult terrain to follow and remain inconspicuous. It would be different once they reached the town. That would be where they were at their most vulnerable, but it was where they had to go.

Despite the attack of the previous night, the team would still split into two: Morgan and Lewis to meet Sophie’s parents on the town’s outskirts, and Cook to track down possible friends in the town center. Morgan considered changing the plan and keeping everyone together, but Cook convinced him not to.

“They took a swipe at you in a quiet hotel in the middle of the night,” she explained. “I’m going to be in a town center with witnesses and police around. I served in Afghanistan,” the former soldier reminded him, “I can handle Brecon.”

Morgan relented. The truth was, in a missing-persons case, every second was vital. Keeping the team together meant doubling the time to work the same leads, and that time was a luxury Sophie Edwards may not have.

The Range Rover came to a halt and Morgan took Cook’s place behind the wheel. “You don’t leave the town center,” he repeated to her.