Birthright: Pray your past stays hidden (Alex Turner Book 1)

by Richard Blade

  “And what does that mean to me?”

  “Cate, do you want to tell him?”

  Cate stood over Eddie and took a breath, “If you put aside counting all the great-greats and concentrate on following the bloodline, it leads straight to you and means the throne of the British Empire is yours by birthright.”

  It was Eddie’s turn to be silent. He looked up at Cate, then turned to Alex, “Even if this DNA bloodline shit is true, it all went down so long ago, right?”

  “Wrong,” said Alex. “The Royal Family’s bloodline is everything. The British crown traces its lineage back almost a thousand years to 1066. A century is nothing. The birthright is what counts.”

  “And that’s why they’ve been after him – and because of what we know, after us as well? Correct?” asked Cate.

  “Yes. Right now, the monarchy is in a very vulnerable position and if anyone found out about the existence of a true heir, it could bring it down - look what occurred after Diana’s death with the uproar from the people against the Queen, and then the controversy with Harry giving up his Royal duties for Meghan. If Britain lost having the Crown to oversee Parliament, it could become politically unstable as has happened with Italy and France and Spain where socialism is on the upswing, and even fascism is appearing again. There are people on both sides of the Atlantic who wouldn’t let that happen, after all, the United Kingdom is a major nuclear force, and is also the only power that always stands with America in times of conflict. Do you really think the United States government and the military-industrial complex would allow their multi-trillion-dollar resource to be lost?”

  “But I wouldn’t bring anything down.” For the first time Eddie sounded like the young teen he was.

  “Just your being alive could do that. That’s why they want to kill you, to eliminate any potential threat to the throne and to the stability of America’s number one ally.”

  “How come you didn’t know this before? I thought you knew everything?”

  “No one knows everything. European scandals and British Royals are not my field of expertise. Had it been American Presidents and a constitutional crisis, it would have been a different matter.”

  “I guess.” Eddie’s eyes were heavy, “Either way, we’re screwed, right?”

  “Yes. That’s why we have to leave now,” said Alex.

  “Where can we go? Won’t MI6 keep after us when they don’t find our bodies in the church?”

  Alex shook his head sadly as he replied to Eddie, “Yes. And the concern is not only with MI6 here in England.” He took a long pause, knowing how hard the next words would be to hear, “The reason the British Secret Service were able to get to you inside a secure facility in California so quickly is because they must have had help internally there. And that means they are working with America’s security agencies, probably the FBI, the NSA and the CIA too. Remember, there are military and big-money interests in both countries that do not want to be endangered. They will all be looking for you, and now, looking for us.”

  “Oh my God! Stop! I know what you’re going to say. Don’t even go there.” Cate clenched her fists in angst.

  “I’m sorry. We’ve opened Pandora’s Box and unleashed a fury that is not going to end. With these forces in place we can never return home. They would find us there and we know too much. We have to disappear.”

  “I have family.” She fought back the tears even as she knew Alex was right.

  “Then do this to protect them and everyone you love. Right now, we finally understand why this is happening and we have a head start. In addition to all the cash we have, there is the two hundred thousand dollars Brown paid me to find Eddie-”

  Eddie sat up in surprise, “How much?”

  “Actually, in excess of twenty million. That’s how much these organizations thought you were worth.”

  Eddie slumped back against the bench, speechless.

  “We know how serious they are about getting their hands on you and what will happen if they do. But we can use their cash to run. This may be our only chance to get out. We leave England, see if I am able to transfer the rest of my money from the bank if it hasn’t already been seized, then change our names, pick up new IDs, keep moving and try to disappear.”

  “Like Mary Kelly did over a century ago.” It was hard for Cate to reconcile the irony.

  “Yes. Even back then she knew they would never give up and was terrified about what they would do to her and her family. Mary was desperate not to be found, and that’s why she moved so often, and changed their name twice.”

  “And now her offspring has to do the same. You’re right, we have no choice, we have to run before they get to us and to our families. We should try to fix Eddie’s ID, head to the airport and get a flight out,” Cate knew now it was their only option.

  “Where will we go?” asked Eddie.

  “Somewhere within Europe. Internal flights are less regulated. We’ll pick a smaller country, more off the map-”

  “Not like Germany or Belgium?” said Cate.

  “No. Northern European countries will be too restrictive and I’m sure have stringent passport controls. We’ll choose a quieter, laid-back vacation destination. A little town used to getting summer tourists from all over, who rarely travel and might be using expired IDs, not major financial capitals dealing on a daily basis with businessmen and expecting their arrivals to have all the correct documents and visas in place. It’ll be our best chance.” He got to his feet, “We have to go.”

  Knowing they had no other choice, Eddie and Cate fell in line behind him, and the silent procession were lost in their thoughts, contemplating their uncertain future, as they left the run-down park, more dejected than the destitute and homeless remaining in the desolate grounds.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Typhoon Strike One

  The badge on Colin’s suit announced he was a visitor on someone else’s turf, but the confidence and assurance in his stride showed he hardly felt uncomfortable or out of place as he marched with Simon Foster through the building housing MI5.

  “How is your arm?” asked Simon as he led the way through the long, narrow corridors.

  “My arm?” questioned Colin.

  “Your wound. You know, where you were shot.”

  “Oh, that. It was only a scratch. Three stitches and a bandage. Nothing really.”

  “You were lucky. That was the best place you could have been hit.” There was a hint of misgiving in Simon’s voice.

  “I guess sometimes the good guys luck out,” smiled Colin.

  “I guess.” Simon pointed to the end of the hallway, “It’s right ahead.”

  Blocking the corridor in front of them was a reinforced metal door, controlled by two armed policemen standing on either side.

  “Going in, sir?” asked the first of the guards.

  “That we are, sergeant,” replied Simon.

  The guard swiped his magnetic key card against the electronic reader panel, unlocking the heavy door which opened smoothly outwards on its hydraulic hinges.

  “Thank you.” Simon turned to Colin, “Follow me in. We’ll see what they have for us.”

  The two top ranking spies entered the NCC - the National Communications Center, deep inside the headquarters of Britain’s internal security service, in Thames House.

  The air hummed, as a mass of electronics, fed by orbiting geosynchronous satellites linked to two super computers, went about their automated jobs of checking emails and phone calls made within the United Kingdom for key trigger words. Hundreds of monitors of all sizes filled three walls, and operatives jammed the room as they manned their stations overseeing Britain’s six million surveillance cameras. The tension level was elevated as the techs switched rapidly from screen to screen, their speed and diligence making it obvious an urgent alert was in place. Even Colin Brown, used to the invasive drone technology MI6 developed for their global reconnaissance, was impressed at the attention and coverage Five was bringing to
the forefront to spearhead this search.

  A young female, scanning a desk loaded with three monitors, spun around, “I have footage on the car, sir, and a confirmed match on the plates. This is from a petrol station’s security camera. Time stamp on it is from six hours ago.”

  She hit enter on her keyboard, and the video played back on the largest of her screens.

  Colin and Simon locked their stare on the display and watched as Cate walked across the forecourt to the car, her arms full of groceries. Standing at the rear of the vehicle was Eddie York, pumping gas.

  Simon pulled his gaze from the screen and looked at Colin, “You were right. They are alive.”

  Colin didn’t reply to him, but his eyes burned with anger. Ignoring Simon, he spoke forcefully to the female operative, “Give me possible destinations.”

  “When they left the petrol station they were heading north on the A14. That’s towards Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Manchester, even Scotland, if they keep going.”

  He fixed his glare on Simon, “I knew it. You have to make this priority one.”

  Simon felt Mr. Brown’s ire, but this was not the place to address his counterpart’s fury. Instead, he took control, “Now we have a location and a heading, I want all police cars north of Oxford on the lookout for the vehicle. Get boots on the ground in Birmingham and Manchester. Have every local agency throughout the entire Midlands check their CCTV from the last six hours. We’re close people, I can feel it. Let’s bring them in.”

  He looked back to Colin for his approval, but received none. Colin spun on his heels and marched out, too impatient to remain in a room that merely monitors action.

  Late-season holidaymakers hoping to find the last of the summer sun packed Britain’s busiest airport outside of London. Manchester International was the jumping off point for the Midlands and the North, and among the thousands passing through Terminal Three that day, were the trio waiting in the lounge for their non-stop flight on Northumbria Airlines to Portugal.

  Alex nervously slapped the plane tickets up and down on his thigh as he waited to get onboard and leave the country.

  Cate saw how anxious he was, “Want me to hang on to them for you? Or I can put them in my backpack with everything else. They’ll be safe in there.”

  “No, I’ll keep them. I’m getting used to it, unfortunately.”

  She looked at the reluctant traveler and sucked in a deep breath. There was something she had to say, “Your wife would be proud of you.”

  Alex flashed a surprised look at her, but it was clear he didn’t agree with her compliment, “Thank you. But once again, what I’ve done is too little, too late.”

  “Not for us. You’ve kept Eddie and me alive.”

  The terminal’s P.A. system cut off his reply, “This is the first boarding call for Flight 4052 to Faro. We’d like to invite our Premium Class passengers to board. Please have your tickets ready and your passports open to the photo page for inspection.”

  The crowd got to their feet, eager to start their holidays, and shuffled forward, even as the announcement repeated in Portuguese.

  Eddie heard the strange language, “What is that?”

  “Portuguese. It’s what they speak where we’re going.”

  “And I suppose you understand it?”

  “Not a word, unfortunately,” admitted Alex.

  Cate cut in on their conversation and pointed to the two airline employees at the gate, “They’re checking passports again and using scanners.”

  “I hope my fake one works. It’s S.B.T.,” said Eddie.

  “What is S.B.T?”

  “Sweaty Butt Time. When you’re almost safe but not quite. Like if a cop pulls you over and you’re not sure whether he’s going to spot if the bike’s stolen or not, you know.”

  Alex didn’t know, and shook his head, as his attention returned to the gate agents inspecting the passports.

  Cate interrupted his thoughts, “I have an idea.” She slipped her backpack off and slid out her laptop, “Let me check something. The airport has free Wi-Fi with no login required. Thank you, Manchester!”

  The Public Address system boomed out again, “We would like to begin general boarding. Passengers in rows twenty-eight to thirty-six may now line up ready for secondary inspection before boarding Northumbria Airlines Flight 4052 to Faro, Portugal.”

  “That’s us,” said Eddie, as he jumped eagerly to his feet.

  Colin burst into the communications room of MI5 at Thames House and saw Simon hunched over the central console conferring with two operatives.

  “What is it? What have you found?”

  “Thanks for coming back. We’re getting closer. We’ve located the stolen car,” answered Simon.

  “Where? Are they on the move?”

  “We’re not sure. The car is parked at Manchester airport.” Simon put his hand on the tech’s shoulders, “Can you pull up the footage?”

  The center screen filled with the picture of the Ford Fiesta sitting there, one of a thousand vehicles in the huge, outdoor lot.

  “Fuck. They’re rabbiting.” Colin swung from the image to Simon, “Tell me the airport is on lockdown.”

  “It is now. As soon as we picked up the car, I put it on a level three-”

  “Now?” Colin was furious. “It should have been on level three from the moment we knew they were still alive and heading north.”

  “We called a level three for all ground transportation, and priority one reports on surveillance in cities and motorways.”

  “But not airports?”

  “No. Everything they’d done before indicated they would be not using airports.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Simon, they’re fucking Yanks. They’re trying to get home. Of course they’d hit the airports. Did you think they were going to swim back to America?”

  “From what you told me,” Simon looked at the men around him and guarded his words; this remained a classified op, “they weren’t ready to leave the UK yet. They were still,” he looked for the right word, “searching.”

  “Whatever they were doing, airports were an obvious target. Damn it, you know Six can’t pull this coverage at home. Internal security is Five’s department, not mine. Have your men bring up everything from the terminals. Notify the airport police to detain them as-”

  “Sir, can I interrupt?” An agent stared nervously at the two high-level spooks arguing behind him.

  “What is it?” asked Simon.

  “I’m getting ticketing information with the suspect’s names.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I heard you mention America, but they’re not heading for the States. At least two of them aren’t. I have passport confirmations on Alex Turner and Caitlin Shannon. They bought tickets for Faro, Portugal.”

  Even though the operative wasn’t one of his men, Colin had to ask, “What about Eddie or Edward York?”

  The operative checked the list on his screen again and looked back at them, “No. He’s not on the passenger manifest.”

  Simon’s face clouded, “They wouldn’t leave without the kid. Not after all this. Can you check again?”

  He returned to his display and scrolled down, then stopped. He rechecked the screen and turned back to his boss and the man with him, “I think you should look at this.” He waved Colin, not Simon, forward, “I know who you are, sir, and your badge has your name on it. And the manifest says there is a Colin Brown traveling on the Northumbria Airlines flight to Faro, and his ticket was purchased with cash at the same time as the other two.”

  Colin’s eyes exploded as he saw his name highlighted on the list, “Those bastards! They’ve used my passport for him.”

  The second seated operative, hearing this conversation, seized the initiative and whirled around, “Chief Foster, I have video from the gate of the passengers waiting for the flight. Would you be able to ID them from it?”

  “I would. Play it,” demanded Colin.

  Security footage showed two hundred
bored tourists impatiently waiting for their boarding call, kids running between their seated parents, teens texting, people munching on fast food and searching through their carry-ons for anything to pass the time.

  Colin jabbed his finger at the screen, “There. Zoom in and clarify.”

  The tech increased the gain on the picture, and the three fugitives filled the display.

  “That’s them. No doubt.”

  “I’ll run a facial recognition protocol-”

  Colin cut him off, “No need. I can confirm a positive ID on all three.”

  Simon barked an order to his team, “Contact flight control. Have them hold the plane. No one gets on or off. Keep it away from any gate or jet bridge.”

  The tech was reluctant with his next words, “Sir, the footage you saw was two hours old. Flight 4052 took off on time, fifty-three minutes ago.”

  “That will put them in international airspace and out of Five’s jurisdiction.” Simon stared at Colin, “This is all you now. What assets does Six have in Portugal?”

  “Portugal? No permanent assets. I have agents in Madrid and Barcelona, but they wouldn’t get to Faro in time to meet the flight. Can Five order the plane back?”

  Simon shook his head, “No, they are outside of British airspace now. The best we could do is request they divert to Paris, Marseilles or Biarritz.”

  “Shit! We can’t let the damned French get their hands on this.” Colin pounded his head with his fists in frustration then pulled himself together, “I don’t have time to return to my office at Six. Can we use yours? Now?”

  “Certainly. Follow me.” Simon led the way out of the NCC, taking the painfully slow elevator up five floors to the Director’s station at Thames House.

  Unlike Colin’s glass and marble office at MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, Simon Foster’s was dated and damp, as MI5 was relegated to a stone and brick building completed in 1930 in Millbank, alongside the river. The windows were small and old, and the carpet worn. But Colin failed to notice the décor; he had other things to be concerned about.