Princess: A Private Novel

by James Patterson

  The majesty of the moment had not been lost on Morgan, and he nodded, but the movement was cursory. A punctuation at the end of one conversation, and the beginning of the next. He had come to the Tower for a reason that was not one of ceremony.

  “Something’s been troubling me,” Morgan admitted to the Colonel. He didn’t need to say that it was something other than the death of Jane, which burned through his soul with more torturous intent than any of the contraptions that had been used to bring misery to the Tower’s former occupants, and traitors.

  “What is it?” De Villiers asked.

  “The shooters knew my hotel in Brecon. They knew where to find us at the waterfall. It’s fair to say by now that those gunmen were Flex and an associate. Maybe more than one.”

  “Are you saying you think Flex had inside help?”

  “I know he did.”

  “And do you know from whom?”

  “At first I thought it was Lewis, but I know now that’s not possible.”

  “Then who?”

  “The Princess told me you have SAS troopers on the security detail?”

  De Villiers nodded. “Of course. They’re the best of the best.”

  “They’re also people who are loyal to Flex, he being one of their own.”

  “I don’t like where you’re going with this, Morgan.”

  “But hear me out anyway. I’d like you to look into the service records of the SAS men on the Princess’s detail, to see if any served alongside Flex.”

  “They’re all younger men on this detail, much younger than Flex. He has been out of the regiment for a while now. I doubt it’s possible.”

  “But we need to consider it.”

  His business at an end, Morgan gave De Villiers the number that he could now be reached on.

  “But we’re not done yet,” the Colonel said suddenly, surprising him.

  “We’re not?”

  “No, Morgan. There’s a reason I wanted you to come to the Tower, and I’m afraid you can’t leave without knowing it. Follow me.”

  Morgan allowed himself to be led by De Villiers into the heart of the Tower, emerging in a courtyard that was lined with small terraced houses older than the American’s home nation.

  “Who lives here?” Morgan asked.

  “The Beefeaters,” the Colonel answered.

  “They’re trusted to live inside the Tower?”

  “More than trusted. They’re the soul of the place, every one of them a former warrant officer with twenty-two years’ service or more. They come from the army, air force and navy, each of them as dedicated and patriotic a person as you’ll find.”

  Morgan listened, interested to find out where De Villiers’ speech was heading.

  “Many of them joined the military at sixteen,” De Villiers added. “And they’ll serve until they retire. Duty to their country is all, to them.”

  “And duty to the Crown?”

  “You’ll not find a Beefeater who doesn’t see them as one and the same. After you, Morgan.” The Colonel unlocked a door and stepped aside so that the American could walk in first.

  He did, and came face to face with a man holding a gun.

  Chapter 88

  THE ARMED MAN made no move as Morgan entered, a Heckler & Koch MP5 machine gun held downward across his chest. After a moment, Morgan recognized him as one of the men who had talked to Lewis at the gate of the royal residence in Wales, what felt like a lifetime ago. The man acknowledged Morgan with a jut of his chin.

  “Up here.” De Villiers pointed over Morgan’s shoulder. Morgan brushed by the armed man as he made his way through the cramped corridor and up the narrow staircase. Behind him, De Villiers stooped so that his head avoided the ceiling.

  When Morgan reached the top of the short flight he turned and found himself in what amounted to a studio apartment, the walls thick with books, the antique wooden desk piled high with papers.

  There was a woman sitting at it.

  “Your Highness,” Morgan greeted Princess Caroline, his outward appearance giving away nothing of his surprise. He had expected De Villiers to be taking him to some intelligence briefing—or to detain him, had he developed cold feet. Instead, Morgan now found himself in the top-secret hiding place of Princess Caroline. Hearing footsteps behind him as De Villiers walked back down the steps, it became apparent that this reception was to be for Jack Morgan alone.

  Princess Caroline turned to face the American at the top of her tiny staircase. Her initial expression was one of grief, mourning the loss of her beloved Sophie, but then he saw something else in her face, too—shock. Perhaps fear.

  “Jack.” She rose to her feet and removed her reading glasses. “Jack, you look like a different man.”

  Morgan said nothing and stood as still as the Tower’s bayonet-carrying soldiers while Princess Caroline crossed the small room. She stopped in front of him and embraced him. It was the embrace of someone who had experienced the deepest pain of loss, and who could see that same emptiness of grief in him.

  “I’m so sorry,” the royal told him, her words muffled by Morgan’s windbreaker. “I’m so very sorry.” In her words, he could feel the Princess expressing her sadness and regret for her own loss as much as his. They had both had the woman they loved taken from them. Perhaps, that night, there were no two souls more alike than the British royal and the American investigator.

  Morgan hugged her back.

  There was no awkwardness in the moment. They were two people. Two people trapped in grief. Consumed by it. United by it.

  “I’m reviewing grant applications,” Caroline said suddenly, breaking the embrace and moving back to her desk. “I need some good to come from today, Jack. When I close my eyes tonight, I want to know there’s good in the world, and not just evil.

  “Here.” She picked up a sheaf of papers. “This one’s for a well in Africa.” She picked up a second proposal. “This one for a girls’ school in Pakistan. Do you think it will make a difference? I hope so. The thought of improving the lives of children struggling in such impoverished conditions is the only thing that could possibly help me sleep tonight.”

  Morgan said nothing. They both knew that a good night’s sleep was impossible for either one of them.

  “I didn’t even know about him,” said Princess Caroline, taking a seat on the room’s small bed and gesturing that Morgan sit beside her. “Mayoor Patel. I’d never even heard that name before, and now it will be with me forever. What does he look like?”

  Morgan told her.

  “I picture this ogre in my head,” she said. “Is he the monster I picture him to be?”

  Morgan shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But I don’t think he ever intended to kill Sophie. It was a crime of passion, a situation he lost control of. It wasn’t planned or calculated. Some people kill when they don’t mean to. Others do it because they’re sick.”

  “You’ve met a lot of people like that,” Caroline guessed.

  “Too many.”

  “I suppose Sophie kept secrets from everyone. Even from me. I think she knew that, had I known she had a love for someone else, it would have broken my heart. I’m telling myself that she kept her relationship with him a secret so that I didn’t get hurt.”

  “She loved you,” Morgan assured her, his eyes telling her that it was the truth. “Patel told me as much. He tried to make her blackmail you, but she wouldn’t do it. That’s when he realized it was love.”

  “And that’s when he killed her.”

  There was nothing Morgan could say to that.

  “People will say that we were lucky to have loved, even if for a short time,” she tried, desperate to be stoic.

  Morgan didn’t answer in words, but he couldn’t hide the answer on his face.

  “Fucking bullshit, isn’t it?” Caroline uttered with a sad laugh. “Absolute bullshit. I would die on the spot to bring Sophie back.”

  “But it wouldn’t,” Morgan replied.
r />   “No. It wouldn’t.”

  “I should go. It was good to see you, Your Highness.”

  “Whatever help I can give. Whatever help my people can give. It’s yours, Jack.”

  As Morgan reached the bottom of the narrow staircase, he found the proof of that vow: De Villiers was waiting for him.

  “I found something,” said the Colonel.

  Chapter 89

  MORGAN FOLLOWED DE Villiers down a stone staircase and into a cellar. The air was cold and dank, and Morgan sniffed at the smell of mothballs. The cellar was now a storeroom for tables and chairs draped in dust sheets, and a home for spiders, their cobwebs littering the space, clinging to the ceiling’s wooden beams like the torn sails of some battered warship. De Villiers frowned at the unkempt space, then turned his attention to the American.

  “I cross-referenced Flex’s record with the SAS men on the Princess’s security detail,” the Colonel explained. “I started with the oldest first, as they were most likely to cross paths.”

  “And you found one?” Morgan asked.

  “Second name I tried. I’ve got my most trusted people checking the others, but until then, I told Corporal Joyce to meet us down here, so that we can have a chat.”

  Corporal Joyce, of the Special Air Service Regiment, arrived in the cellar a few minutes later. Having been called from rest, he was unarmed, wearing only a tracksuit and a frown.

  “Colonel De Villiers down here?” he asked the room’s sole occupant, Jack Morgan.

  “He’s not,” Morgan said simply.

  “Oh. All right. Wrong bloody room.” The man was about to turn away when Morgan’s words stopped him.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked. “I saw it in your face. You know who I am, and now you’re about to run upstairs, to tell your boy Flex.”

  Joyce tried to snort at such a ridiculous notion, but his shifting feet and awkward posture paid testament to his guilt. “I don’t know who you are, mate. And I don’t care.” He turned, coming face to face with Colonel De Villiers.

  Who held a dusty chair by its legs.

  “Bastard!” the Colonel roared, swinging the piece of furniture down on the treacherous man. Joyce raised his arms to protect himself, but the Colonel was tall, and his swing fierce. The blow smashed against Joyce’s arm with the sound of cracking bone.

  “Jesus!” the man gasped, dropping to one knee.

  “Colonel!” Morgan shouted, shocked at the attack. “Colonel! Stop!”

  But De Villiers would not stop. He brought the chair down on the man again, this time over Joyce’s back. He was about to swing the remnants of the now-broken chair a third time, but Morgan wrestled it from his grasp. Denied, De Villiers settled for delivering a kick into Joyce’s stomach.

  “He did it! It was all over his face, Morgan! You piece of shit, Joyce! I’ll beat you to death for this!”

  Morgan held the Colonel back, and spoke evenly into his ear. “Colonel. We need him to talk. We need him in one piece, so he can talk. That’s how we find Flex. That’s how we get justice for Lewis, Perkins and Cook.”

  “You’ll talk,” the Colonel growled at the man on the floor.

  Morgan, knowing the SAS’s training to withstand interrogation, did not expect the man to give it up easily.

  He was wrong.

  “I didn’t know he was gonna do what he did!” the soldier spat between gritted teeth. “I didn’t know, sir!”

  “What did you do?” De Villiers hissed. “Why were you helping him?”

  “He said this one had tried to kill him over money,” Joyce replied, pointing a hand at Morgan. “He came into Flex’s gym and attacked him, but Flex beat him off. I was helping him get even.”

  “‘Get even’?” De Villiers roared. “A former army officer is dead! Lewis—your teammate!—is in hospital, beaten to within an inch of her life!”

  “Flex said that he did it,” Joyce said meekly, looking at Morgan. “He said it was a set-up.”

  De Villiers was unable to stop himself, and slapped the soldier hard around the head. “Have you got shit where your brains should be, Joyce? This is all Flex’s doing! He used you, you idiot! He used you to kill one of us, and to put two others in hospital!”

  “Oh God…” Joyce swallowed, as the horrible truth crashed down on him. “Sir, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He looked to Morgan.

  Morgan made no reply.

  It was De Villiers who spoke for them. “You have blood on your hands, Joyce.”

  The man made no move to deny it, simply nodding with stunned guilt. “Just tell me what to do to make it right,” he begged them. “I’ll do anything, sir. Please. Let me help you catch Flex.”

  Chapter 90

  MORGAN WALKED OUT of the building and into the cool summer air. Blood pulsed in his temples. It wasn’t from the admission of the soldier that he had planned to help Flex do harm to Morgan—in his line of work, he was used to that enough not to take it personally. The quickening of his heartbeat came at the thought of being one step—a big step—closer to Flex.

  Morgan pulled out his phone. A few seconds later, he called Peter Knight’s personal number.

  “Jack, are you OK?” Knight asked, hopeful.

  “Yeah. How are things going back there?” Morgan replied.

  “Everyone’s safe, but we’re banging our heads against a brick wall trying to find leads.”

  Morgan could hear something in his friend’s voice. Something that hadn’t been there when they had parted company. Was it suppressed anger? Grief?

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I’m OK,” Knight replied. Morgan was sure then that he was lying. “But we need a lead. Anything to get this moving.”

  “I’m taking care of it,” Morgan told him, then regretted his choice of words. “We’re going to take care of this,” he assured his friend. “I’ve found out who was leaking information to Flex. Maybe he can lead us to him.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Morgan could swear he heard the sound of car keys being grabbed.

  “No. I need you to organize eyes onto Flex’s London offices. There’s always a chance he’s hiding in plain sight.”

  “The hell with organizing, Jack. We have staff who can do that for us,” Knight protested firmly. “I’m not sitting here whilst you’re on the street doing God knows what. I sent an agent out to check on the car’s location, expecting to find you dead behind the wheel, and they come back telling me that two streets over was cordoned off by police because of a shooting. I suppose that’s totally unrelated though, isn’t it?”

  “I need you calm, Peter.”

  “And I need you alive, Jack. Private needs you alive. Hundreds of people, all counting on you. You can’t do this alone.”

  Morgan knew that was the truth, but he pushed it from his mind. One person who had counted on him was dead.

  “Watch Flex’s office, Peter. And track this phone if you need to, but don’t interfere,” he ordered as he heard footsteps coming toward him.

  “Hooligan’s already tried, but the system must be throwing false echoes. It says that you’re in the Tower of London.”

  Morgan almost smiled. “Then the system is working perfectly. Goodbye, Peter. I’ll contact you soon.” He ended the call and turned to face the source of the footsteps.

  “Your Highness,” he greeted Princess Caroline, surprised to see her alone.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she told him, sensing his unease. “This is the safest place on earth for me. The Beefeaters are as loyal as anyone can be.”

  “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 betwee
n 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.”