Royal Protocol

by Dana Marton

  He seemed pleased. Then he let go all the way, and the smile that slowly bloomed on his handsome face was absolutely stunning: warm, sexy, masculine. His eyes were the deep rich brown of the Swiss truffles she rewarded herself with on occasion. The manufacturer spoiled her with regular gifts, one of the perks of being a diva of her time. The title came with both advantages and disadvantages.

  As did his, the thought crossed her mind. Maybe his life was as strange and as out of his hands at times as her own. Maybe they had something in common, after all.

  His smile held. God help any unsuspecting woman he set his sights on. She was relieved to know that in three days, she would be leaving Valtria.

  It’d been a long time since she’d been this aware of a man. She’d seen him before, but always from the stage, from a fair distance, even if he did sit in the best box each and every time. But now, having him this close and touching her, a faint charge ran along her skin, and she couldn’t quite tell if it was a quick thrill or a shiver of foreboding.

  She had little time to ponder it. The closer they got to the stage, the more energy filled her body. Yet, at the same time, a great calm descended on her mind. She was in the zone. She was doing what she loved. Singing was who she was. She could certainly ignore the bedroom eyes of a young European prince.

  “It’s too fuzzy! Who touched the ERS? Everything worked fine this morning, damn it.” A little man rushed by, shouting to someone over his headset, demanding perfect stage lighting.

  She didn’t let that worry her. By the time the curtains rolled back, everything would be ready. She would focus only on her own performance. She’d learned that to pay attention to anyone else’s was the surest way to get distracted.

  People were scurrying about with small props and sheets of paper, losing their heads over some minor crisis or the other that tended to pop up before every show. Rayne focused on what she needed to do and routinely ignored the rest.

  When they reached the steps that led up to the stage, the prince motioned her forward. In her mind, she was already singing the selection from Valtria’s most famous operas. Troublesome princes with bedroom eyes or not, the country had had some brilliant composers.

  She was on the second step when the building shook and she lost her footing in the period shoes that had been made to match her costume. She found herself, confused and alarmed, in the prince’s arms. He’d been coming up behind her and had caught her when she’d stumbled.

  His strong arms held her as if she were a precious treasure.

  Protective.

  She blinked the temporary fancy away. Over the years, a great many men had wanted to do a great many things with her. Protecting her had never been one of them.

  “What was that?” she asked as he set her on her feet.

  “This way.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her back toward the dressing room with a dark expression on his face that stood in contrast to his seemingly pleased mood of before.

  They met with his secretary halfway down the corridor, a man named Morin. She’d been introduced to him upon arrival. He was as skinny a man as she’d ever seen, with a rather large head and an incredibly long, thin nose. He kept his spine studiously straight and his shoulders pushed back. The first time she’d seen him, she’d thought he had an uncanny resemblance to a mosquito.

  The image was reinforced now as, filled with nervous energy, he buzzed around the prince.

  “The protest turned violent, Your Highness. A catering van just exploded in front of the opera house. There seems to be some confusion over whether it was an accident or intentional.”

  Her pulse quickened. “There’s a protest?” She hadn’t turned on her television set in her hotel room since she’d arrived. She preferred to relax in silence when not practicing for her performance.

  “Supposedly peaceful. I apologize,” the prince said, keeping pace. “Order will be restored at any moment. We will delay the performance by just a few minutes.” He fell silent for a beat. “No. An hour. In an hour I’ll have this fully investigated.”

  A man in a dark suit came flying down the hall. “Everything all right, Your Highness?” He scanned their surroundings.

  He looked like a bodyguard. Probably the prince’s.

  “You’ll go with Miss Williams,” Benedek told him.

  The man looked decidedly uncomfortable as he fell in step with them. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I cannot do that.” He looked extremely apologetic, but even more inflexible on that issue. “I’m required—”

  “Fine,” Benedek cut him off and stopped at the point where the corridor came to a T. He turned to his secretary who’d been flitting along, wringing his hands. “Is the chief of palace security here?”

  “On his way, Your Highness. I talked to him just a moment ago and—”

  “I’m trusting you two to escort Miss Williams to the palace. Call for an armored car and as many royal guards as they can spare.”

  The man about snapped his heels together. “Certainly, Your Highness.”

  She hadn’t been to the palace yet, although she was supposed to attend a reception there tonight. She didn’t fancy going out to the streets just now. The opera house was giant and newly restored, looking sturdy enough to withstand a full-blown military attack if necessary.

  “I’d prefer not to leave the building this close to my performance,” she objected, but the prince seemed to be focused on something else and was already rushing off with a last, unfathomable look at her, his bodyguard in his wake, following closely.

  “This way.” Morin was certainly determined to obey his boss. He dialed his cell phone, his lips tightening. “The line’s busy. He might be outside already, investigating the explosion.”

  She assumed he was talking about the chief of palace security.

  Morin called for an armored car next. “We’ll go out the back entrance,” he said as he hung up.

  She barely had time to process that before they neared the back door normally used by stage staff, where people were rushing out, then rushing right back in.

  The secretary cast her a concerned look. “Do not worry, Madam. I’ll investigate what’s going on out there and arrange for you to vacate the premises. I shall return as soon as possible.”

  Honest to goodness, he talked like that, like some old-fashioned manual.

  People rushed through, bumping into her.

  She moved closer to the wall to keep out of the jostling flow. The last thing she needed was for her gown to be torn just before she went on stage. “I’ll be in my dressing room,” she called after Morin, but wasn’t sure if the man heard her.

  The hallway was clogged, people elbowing each other, some speaking languages she didn’t understand. It seemed like the entire staff was back here for some reason, even the lighting assistant they’d passed earlier. She gave up fighting to get to her own dressing room and stepped inside the nearest storage room instead.

  She closed the door and turned the rusty key in the lock. Her dressing room had looked brand-new, but this place didn’t look renovated unless one counted the fresh coat of paint on the walls. She supposed all budgets had their limits. Money had probably been saved on out-of-the-way storage areas. She listened. If Morin called her name out there, she would be able to hear it.

  Five minutes passed. She unlocked the door with some effort—the key was sticking—and, looking out, could see her dressing room. Morin wasn’t there.

  She pulled back in. Everything was going to be fine.

  There had been some unrest in the country the year before, but peace had been restored. Since most of the royal family were to attend tonight’s performance, security in and around the opera house was top-notch. Craig, her agent, and she had already discussed security concerns.

  According to the tour she’d been given on arrival, the building had withstood three hundred years of turbulent history, including two world wars. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. She would be safe in here.

>   Small bottles of mineral water stood in a crate by the door. Looking at them made her realize how dry her mouth had gone from all the excitement. She grabbed a bottle and twisted the cap off, but didn’t get a chance to drink before another explosion shook the building, this one closer than the first. Jars of stage makeup rattled on the desk.

  She put her drink down, then stepped to the door and pushed the purple Bombay chest—must have been a prop at one point—in front of it, barricading herself inside. The din out in the hallway was disconcerting. Maybe the rebels were trying to fight their way in through the back entrance.

  Craig was in the audience. She wished she could talk to her agent, but her cell phone was in her own dressing room. She wished Benedek hadn’t left her. He would know what was going on, at the very least. His people would keep him informed.

  She stayed near the door, listening. She was fine. Everything was fine. In a minute or two, Morin would be back.

  “HOW SERIOUS IS THE situation?” Benedek asked again as he scanned the wall of monitors.

  The director of security for the opera house was of the opinion that the peaceful protest at Liberation Square had been a ruse by the Freedom Council. The enemies of the monarchy had gathered as many of their people as possible in the vicinity of the opera house to sabotage the opening, perhaps even capture the royal family who were supposed to be in attendance.

  Except that the Queen had felt unwell earlier in the evening, and Benedek’s brothers lingered by her side, running late. She’d taken to her bed over a year ago, her condition fluctuating since. So when the crowd attacked, the princes were still safely at the palace. Benedek, who’d been here since early morning, making sure opening night would be a resounding success, was the only member of the royal family currently in the building.

  “How many rebels are we talking about this time?” he asked, tacking another question onto the first before the director had a chance to answer.

  “About two thousand is the best we can estimate from the upper windows, Your Highness.”

  He nodded. At least Rayne got out in time and was inside the palace by now, under heavy guard. He barely had a half dozen royal guards here. The rest were supposed to arrive later, with his brothers. “Who’s their leader?”

  “A very angry young man, Your Highness. Goes by the name of Mario and fancies himself a freedom fighter. The palace just sent over a security report on him. Supposedly, he’s not associated with the Freedom Council.”

  Maybe he hadn’t been before, but Benedek had a feeling the Council had gotten to him and were using him now.

  The three nameless men who ran the council were ruthless in their quest to dethrone the monarchy and break up the country, along ethnic lines, into small republics they would have full control over.

  “Should I initialize lockdown?” The director waited for his answer.

  The opera house had a massive security system in place. A computer program handled the entrances, all of which could be sealed at the push of a button. But if they locked down, it would be viewed as a step toward conflict, the crowd outside would be provoked and might lay siege to the building. He didn’t want to risk the damage, not while they still had other options. “I’ll try negotiating first.”

  The director paled. “I beg you to think of your safety, Your Highness. I shall go out there immediately.”

  “You stay here and keep people from panicking.”

  “Your Highness—” The man tried to stand in his way and stop him while remaining respectful and deferential, not an easy task.

  The royal guards stepped closer as well. His new bodyguard didn’t seem amused either.

  “This is my opera house.” Benedek gave them a level look. “Anyone wants to lay a finger on it, they answer to me.”

  Two bombs had already exploded outside.

  The rebels, whatever they wanted, needed to know that he wasn’t as easily intimidated as that. He hadn’t started fighting yet. Before the evening turned into night, he would have the rebels gone and Rayne back on stage. Or else.

  “THERE ARE THREE BOMBS in the building,” the voice said on the other end of the line, playing his trump card over and over again, sounding triumphant and frustrated at the same time.

  The call had come in on a red cell phone someone had left in the security office. Nobody there now knew who it belonged to or how it got there.

  The dozen men inside the opera’s security office watched Benedek intently, hoping for a resolution at last. He silently shook his head. That first bomb outside had exploded an hour ago and they hadn’t yet gotten anywhere.

  “Almost a thousand innocent people are in this building. Your quarrel is with the monarchy. This has nothing to do with tonight’s audience. I’m the only member of the royal family here. You let these people go and I will willingly give myself into your hands,” he repeated his best offer, and the men around him protested again.

  Negotiations were at a deadlock. He’d been trying to talk reason into the man on the other end of the line on and off for the past hour, to no avail.

  The enemy was frustrated because they’d expected six princes and got only one instead.

  “You say your revolution is for the people,” Benedek reminded the man. “Then don’t hurt the people, Mario. You can’t think that the publicity to your cause would be anything but negative. If you want to gain public support, murdering a thousand innocent civilians is not the way to go about it. This isn’t a glorious battle for freedom, you and I both know it.

  It’s mass murder. Somebody is using you as a means to an end.”

  Dead silence on the other end.

  “I’ll let them walk out unharmed,” the man said after a full minute, probably as frustrated with the stalled negotiations as Benedek. “But you will not leave the building. Not you, not that American singer.”

  And for the first time, Benedek relaxed. “She has nothing to do with this,” he offered a token protest to make sure the man didn’t become suspicious. Thank God, Rayne had left before the building had been surrounded.

  Two thousand rebels circled the opera house; five hundred police as well as royal guards, investigators, antiterrorist unit agents and other security circled the rebels. Helicopters hovered in the air above—he could see and hear them through the window. He imagined the scene must look like a giant bull’s eye from the air. With his opera house smack in the middle.

  His muscles were tight with outrage.

  Security forces couldn’t move without risking that the rebels might set off the bombs. They were at an impasse.

  Which would remain the same even after the people were let go. Security forces wouldn’t risk the lives of their prince and a high-profile American by rushing the rebels. The rebels knew this.

  “In exactly five minutes, a gap will open in our ranks directly across from the main entrance. Anyone who wants to leave the building, can walk through. They’ll have five minutes to leave before the ranks close. Anyone outside after that, between us and the building, will be shot at,” the voice on the phone said.

  “There are a thousand people in here—” Benedek argued, wanting to negotiate for more time, but the line had already gone dead.

  He glanced at his watch as he ran for the door. “In five minutes, they’ll let everyone leave,” he said, explaining the rest as he went.

  Security followed behind to help.

  He rushed downstairs and straight to the stage, flying up the steps Rayne had stumbled on not long ago, falling into his arms. Thank God, whatever was about to happen here, no harm would come to her.

  The sound was on, everything was ready for her performance. The audience was in their seats where they’d been asked to remain for their own safety. Benedek addressed them, explaining everything in two minutes flat. The next three were spent lining everyone up in front of the door in a tight line, ready to go.

  His phone rang.

  “What can I do to help?” his brother, Miklos the Army major, asked.


  “Do not come here. They’re letting people go. I’ll call you back later.” Benedek opened the front door, making sure that if there was foul play involved, his body would shield those behind him.

  His security guard pushed him out of the way the next second, putting himself in front of Benedek. “This is what they want, Your Highness. Don’t make yourself a target.”

  They watched as the rebel forces parted, leaving a five-foot gap to freedom.

  “Run!” was the last word of advice Benedek gave to the men and women before stepping away from the door completely.

  And they did, helping each other, careful not to cause a stampede, many speaking words of encouragement to their prince as they left. He’d never been as proud of his people as he was at that moment.

  “Go!” he said again when he looked back inside the lobby and spotted the royal guards and a couple of other men who hadn’t come up to the door.

  He glanced at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

  The rest of the staff and audience were already crossing to freedom, clearing the ring of rebels. A lady of his mother’s age brought up the rear, running with her granddaughter in her arms. The little girl slowed her down too much, as did her gown. Benedek watched them, while yelling at the men who’d stayed behind. “You must leave! There’s no time.”

  Two royal guards separated from the group and dashed out the door. One grabbed the young girl and ran; the other tossed the stately lady in her full-skirted brocade gown right over his shoulder and dashed forward with her.

  They made it before the rebels closed ranks.

  Benedek stepped away from the door and let it close, foreboding filling him as he took in the nearly empty space, the remains of his grand opening night. In hindsight, his hope that the delay wouldn’t last more than an hour was probably too optimistic. He glared at the men.

  “You should not have stayed.” He drew a deep breath. “But I thank you for your loyalty,” he told them.

  “Should probably go back upstairs, Your Highness,” one of the older royal guards recommended, and they followed him, seeing no purpose in lingering just inside the entrance.