Jeanie London - Her Last Protector

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“WELCOME BACK, Your Royal Highness.”

Mirie accepted the coffee cup from her private assistant. “Relieved to be back.”

That much was true.

She set the folder on the desk. The business she had missed since leaving for Alba Luncă could wait a little longer. She took a fortifying sip of the coffee and glanced at Drei. He stood inside the doorway, his usual post while inside her office. His black uniform helped a giant of a man blend into the woodwork no matter where they were.

He wasn’t blending this morning, which had everything to do with the fact that she knew what he looked like beneath the blazer, turtleneck and pants. Mirie took another hot swallow. The past twenty-four hours had taken a toll. Most especially on her senses.

“Why are you still hanging on to that newspaper?” she asked her assistant.

Helena Avadoni exhaled a sigh that said more than words ever could. A petite powerhouse of energy and organizational skill, she oversaw every detail of life from names of visiting dignitaries during events to spare panty hose if Mirie happened to snag her nylons on a chair leg.

“Are you ready?” Helena asked.

Mirie held out her hand and, bracing herself, scanned the bold headline that read:

Luca of Whitefish.

The headline was an obvious play on her own media nickname. “And so it begins.”

The story summed up the claim of a man named Luca Vadim, who had arrived in Ninsele from a town in the northwestern United States, asserting he was the product of an affair between a Ninselan envoy and the late king.

The article claimed Luca Vadim had heard reports of Mirie’s assassination and worried that if the throne was suddenly vacant, Ninsele might be plunged into another civil war. He’d come forward as a public service.

“A public service,” Mirie said aloud. “Really?”

Silence was her only reply. Both Helena and Drei knew the drill. This wasn’t the first time an imposter had come out of nowhere to claim a blood tie to the throne.

Mirie herself had set the precedent to inspire these copycats. After years in hiding, she’d resurfaced with enough political support to oust the dictator. But she’d been backed by royal supporters, and her first item of business had been proving her identity through DNA testing.

Drei opened the office door, and both the general and Georghe entered. Mirie left her desk to greet them.

“You haven’t slept.” She recognized the signs.

“Like anyone sleeps around here.” Georghe kissed her cheek.

Forcing a smile, she felt the weight of her choices even though Georghe was too kind to point out the obvious.

The chancellor of the Crown Cabinet was one of the most caring people Mirie had ever known. His inconspicuous competency was the reason he had survived the dictatorship when most civilian staffers had been executed or exiled.

The dictator had recognized Georghe’s function within the government and had believed he could control the mild-mannered man. Georghe had played the part, working behind the scenes to ease the peoples’ plight in so many ways and ultimately providing Mirie with the necessary support to overthrow the dictator once she had reached the age of majority.

“Come, come.” Georghe motioned to the chairs. “We have a lot to discuss and some decisions to make.”

Business as usual. “Pour yourselves some coffee, gentlemen.”

After visiting the sideboard, Georghe and the general sat in front of the desk.

“I’m not surprised by Vadim’s attempt to capitalize on the attack,” Mirie said. “But what’s this about an assassination? Who reported I was assassinated? I thought we didn’t announce that I would be attending the funeral as a safety precaution.”

“That was the problem,” Georghe explained. “Since we didn’t issue a press release, no legitimate media were invited. You can thank the paparazzi for the false reports. They camp at our gates, so they followed when you left the compound.”

“Not only were those idiots broadcasting the locations of our units, but they jeopardized everyone’s safety,” the general complained. “There were reporters and video cameras cornering villagers as they tried to get through the gate. I had to sacrifice a unit to get the situation under control.”

Wonderful. The consequences of leaving Briere just kept breeding, like mold. Mirie set the cup aside. It would take more than coffee to make her feel better this morning. “Losing that unit impeded your efforts, General?”

“We might have been able to bring in a few more of your attackers alive if I hadn’t needed to divide my forces.” He scowled blackly. “The paparazzi were a distraction, and we let them know that loud and clear.”

Georghe gave a disgusted snort. “So I’ve heard, thank you. My office was flooded with complaints about your infractions against free speech and the public’s right to know before you even picked up Her Royal Highness. Did you really have to instruct your men to destroy the van’s satellite equipment? We were faxed a bill for its replacement.”

“They’re lucky I didn’t take them into custody. I would have if I’d had the manpower. That won’t happen again. Since they can’t be trusted to use discretion during a crisis, they won’t be allowed near Her Royal Highness. I want to assign a unit to keep them away from our gates.”

Mirie wasn’t sure she understood the point of redirecting their limited manpower. “I don’t leave except to go to church.”

“Exactly. That’s your Sunday routine, and these vultures need repetition to get the point. We’ll create a perimeter around the church to keep the paparazzi at a distance. Georghe can write up one of his diplomatic letters informing these media outlets they’ve lost their privileges.”

Georghe exhaled a low whistle. “I like it. We’ll hold the paparazzi accountable, protect the public and let the legitimate press know we’re taking action so the paparazzi won’t stumble on breaking news again. A show of good faith.”

Helena scribbled some notes while the general raised his coffee cup in a mock salute.

“Now can we get to business?” Georghe asked. “I want to hear what we’ve learned about these attackers.”

The general glanced at Drei. “We believe the transport copter continued through the mountains out of Hungarian airspace. They may have grounded the aircraft. We don’t know. The Hungarians’ radar didn’t yield anything, but they did offer to review surveillance tapes from their military base and a private airstrip in the region.”

“Do you think they’ll find anything?” Mirie asked.

“The attackers would have to be idiots to go anywhere close to civilization. Drei thinks they headed to Ukraine, using the mountains as cover for their escape.”

For the same reasons he had used them to escape with her. Spotty satellite coverage. Terrain that limited radio frequency. Was it any wonder Ninsele couldn’t get a lock on her own borders?

The military had been dismantled and replaced with paid thugs during the authoritarian regime, so the general had been rebuilding their armed forces ever since Mirie’s return. Unfortunately, rebuilding cost money the treasury didn’t have at the moment.

“Do you think the attack was a protest of the upcoming talks?” Mirie had to ask.

“If so, no one has claimed responsibility,” Georghe said. “Not yet, anyway.”

“We do have several corpses, so we haven’t hit a dead end,” the general went on. “The medical examiner is working to identify them now. Hopefully they’ll provide some leads.”

Georghe glanced at Mirie, his expression neutral. He would never say, “I told you so,” but he wasn’t happy. He glanced at Drei, and then said, “I’m sure you’ll come up with something soon. Her Royal Highness is home safely, which is what matters most.”