Linda Jones - Capturing the Crown

Russell felt as if each word were made of lead as he uttered it. “I’m afraid that’s the only way, Your Majesty.”

“Hasn’t the prince suffered enough?” Weston demanded. His voice broke.

“I promise you, sire, the prince won’t feel anything,” Russell told him.

Weston sighed, coming away from the window. “But I will. I will feel every cut, every incision.” The king paused, trying to compose himself. “When the queen died two days after giving birth to Reginald, I thought I could never hurt as much as I did then, losing her. I thought that I could never feel as lost as I did at the moment when her last breath left her body.” He turned to look at the young man who was destined to take his son’s place. “I was wrong. I’m not sure how I am going to get through this, Russell. Not sure at all.”

Russell drew closer to him, silently offering him his strength, grieving not for the prince, but for the father he had left behind. “You will get through it because you are the king. And a very strong man.”

A bittersweet smile played along his lips. “Not so strong, Russell. Not so strong.” He looked down at the framed photograph he was holding. It was of the prince, taken on his tenth birthday. Tears gathered in the king’s eyes. “I should have stopped him. When he was getting out of control, I should have stopped him. Not indulged him. But I thought, hoped, that he would outgrow this reckless behavior.

“I had a bit of a wild streak myself before I was made the king,” he confided. “The weight of the crown sobers you. Makes you humble and makes you realize that your own wishes need to take a back seat to those of your people.” His voice all but drifted away as he said, “I thought that would come to him, as well.”

Obligation forced Russell to say words he didn’t truly believe for the king’s sake. “It might have.”

“But now we’ll never know.”

“No, sire, we won’t,” Russell agreed. “But we can know what happened to him. I know he would want you to find out the truth and if there is someone responsible for all this, the prince would have wanted you to bring them to justice.” He paused before adding, “Even if it means cutting him open.”

Weston nodded. “You’re right. Call this Lazlo. Tell him I want to find out every detail, no matter how small and insignificant, of my son’s last few days. Everything,” he underscored.

“And the royal M.E.?” Russell prodded gently.

Weston squared his shoulders. He began to look a little like his old self. “I would like to hold off on that for a few days. Just until after the wedding day has passed. I can’t explain it, I just don’t want my son to be cut up into pieces on the day he should have been married, even if they do put him back together again.” He looked at Russell for agreement, even though he did not expect to be contradicted.

Russell saw no reason to upset him further by pushing for a speedy autopsy. A few days shouldn’t really matter, not if the events leading up to Reginald’s death could be reconstructed. Reginald’s autopsy could be postponed for a while and conducted at a later time.

Straightening his shoulders, Russell bowed before the king. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“As I wish.” Weston repeated the words. They rang ironically and mocked him as they drifted into oblivion. If things had gone according to his wishes, they would have arranged themselves so differently….

Pushing aside thoughts of weddings and coronations until he could better handle them, Russell quietly withdrew to place his call to Corbett Lazlo as Bostwick shut the doors.

“And you suspect someone in the palace?”

The voice over the telephone was calm, resonant. It echoed slightly, the way voices over a speaker phone did. The echo did not diminish the effect. It was the same voice that had soothed distraught heads of state confronted with the kidnappings of loved ones. The same voice that had promised—and delivered—results in highly delicate government situations that the public had never even suspected.

Corbett Lazlo was a brilliant, enigmatic man very few people actually recognized. Those who did know him saw a tall, trim man with ice-blue eyes that conflicted with an almost boyish grin that even fewer were ever privy to. Some said he was an ex-CIA operative. Others claimed he was a bored genius with a love for challenges. Still others said he was the illegitimate son of a former French president and had cut his teeth on both foreign policy and espionage. No one knew for sure.

The only proven fact was that approximately twelve years ago, he had formed the Lazlo Group, an international team of highly skilled agents who specialized in, among other things, investigating the deaths of political figures.

The Lazlo Group was one of the best kept secrets of the free world. They were usually called in as a last resort, or when affairs were of such a delicate, discreet nature that no one else could be trusted to handle them.

Corbett Lazlo had no affiliation with any particular nation. He was a citizen of the world. His people did whatever was necessary to get the job done. There were never any questions asked by the party or parties who hired them. It was better that way.

The call Russell had placed to him had been rerouted several times so that Russell had no idea exactly where Corbett Lazlo was located. It was the way Corbett preferred it. Russell didn’t care. Lazlo’s location didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding out the series of events that led up to Reginald’s last day and death.

“I suspect everyone right now,” Russell said, answering Lazlo’s question. “Except for King Weston. And the princess,” he added.

He heard what he took to be just the slightest chuckle on the other end.

“Never be too hasty in your judgment,” Lazlo advised. “The princess stood to gain something from the prince’s death.”

Russell frowned. There had been a treaty riding on the union. As far as he knew, there was nothing on the balance sheet if the prince died before they were married. “What?”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end, as if the man expected more of him. “Her freedom. Theirs wasn’t exactly going to be a fairy-tale marriage. The prince went on whoring to the very end.” He delivered the information as if he had been a witness to Reginald’s behavior. Russell knew that the man kept himself informed on many fronts. “Not quite the behavior for a man who was about to be married to the woman of his dreams.”

Russell could feel himself growing protective again. It had never occurred to him that Amelia might not need a champion, that she would want to fight her own battles at all times. He wouldn’t hear her maligned, even theoretically. “She had nothing to do with it.”

There was just a hint of indulgence in Lazlo’s voice as he abandoned his point. “Nonetheless, we leave no stone unturned. My people don’t come cheaply, Carrington, but they pride themselves on delivering. Everything,” he emphasized. “The good and the bad.”

“Money isn’t a problem.” He knew he spoke for the king when he made the affirmation. The monarch would have no peace until the matter of his son’s death was resolved. And perhaps, sadly, not even then.

“Good. I’ll be sending one of my top operatives to the palace. Her name is Lucia Cordez.” Lazlo’s voice was quick, staccato, leaving no room for argument as he took command of the situation. “You will invite her to the wedding. She will blend in.”

About to protest that there would be no wedding, Russell was suddenly struck by a thought. “How will I know her?”

“Trust me, you’ll know her. She has the disadvantage of being stunning.” A disadvantage, because he preferred his operatives to blend in rather than stand out. But he couldn’t hold Lucia’s beauty against her, not when she was so skilled at what she did. “Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s good under pressure and she is a computer expert.”