Crown's Vengeance, The (3 page)

His deeply stained walnut door slid noiselessly shut, finally affording a sense of privacy. As he massaged his eyes with the flat of his palms, the Right Honorable Donald Duncan, prime minister of the United Kingdom, First Lord of the Treasury, and Minister for the Civil Service, wondered what the hell was going on.

His good friend was dead, shot in one of the most secure places in the country. The area was literally crawling with security personnel at all hours, so the thought that a lone sniper could access a nearby rooftop, shoot a government minister and vanish had everyone on edge.

Duncan gave an inadvertent glance at his office windows. Despite the manufacturer’s claims they were bullet-resistant, this apparently didn’t extend to armor-piercing rounds. He’d seen a photo of poor Roland’s corpse, head shattered like a dropped pumpkin. However, now was not the time for grief. A country was in disarray, desperate for answers. It was his job to find them.

The prime minister set his angular, clean-shaven jaw. Weakness was not an option.

“Secretary White, please come inside.”

The Right Honorable Bradley White, secretary of state for defense, hurried through the door. Clasped in both hands was a depressingly thin file that contained everything they knew about the murder so far.

“Bradley, please have a seat.”

The tall, slender man sat down across from Duncan, his erect posture giving him the appearance of a worried stork.

“What do we know?”

The harried secretary laid the folder on Duncan’s desk and removed a single sheet.

“Approximately one hour ago, Sir Roland was shot while standing in front of a closed office window facing south. A single bullet was fired through the window, entering Roland’s skull just below his right eye. The round was a .338 cartridge, fired at a range of less than one hundred meters. From such a close distance, the round is capable of piercing the bullet-resistant glass installed in Sir Roland’s office. He was killed instantly.”

“Do we have any idea who shot him?” the Prime Minister asked.

“To be frank, sir, we haven’t the foggiest. The man must be a damn ghost. Surveillance footage doesn’t show anyone traversing the courtyard around the building from which the shot was fired. The first time we see anything is when the shot is fired.”

Duncan’s face burned.

“Are you telling me this man is invisible?”

“Not exactly, sir, but we don’t have any idea what he looks like.”

Secretary White slipped the glasses from his pointed nose.

“Right now, our best guess is the shooter fired from a ventilation duct on the roof across from Sir Roland’s office. It’s hard to tell, but several cameras captured what we believe to be a muzzle flash coming from the duct.”

“How could he have accessed that duct? Bloody hell, that’s a treasury building. You can’t just walk in and out, much less without being caught on camera.”

Minister White’s eyes remained downcast as he spoke.

“That’s just it, sir. We reviewed all the footage from the past hour, and not a single person is seen heading toward either the roof or entering any maintenance rooms, the only places from which one could access said ducts.” His shoulders rose slightly. “I know it doesn’t make sense, sir, but it’s simply the truth.”

There was no need to berate Bradley. He was a good man, intelligent and hardworking. If he said there was no footage of the shooter, there wasn’t.

Duncan ran one weathered hand through his salt and pepper hair.

“This is a tough spot we’re in, no? All right, talk to your security teams and get an update. I have to make a statement before the rumor mill runs amok. I want an update in thirty minutes. And send Mr. Moore in, please.”

White hurried from the room. Before the door clicked shut, Colin Moore stepped inside. As chief secretary to the Treasury, Colin Moore was third in the Treasury Department’s hierarchy, after the prime minister and the recently deceased chancellor of the exchequer. He was what some people would refer to as a “proper Brit.” With his meticulously coiffed hair, perfectly tailored suit and bespoke leather shoes, he oozed gentility and class. Educated at Eton, he was part of the good old boys network that ran through English politics-and had been the presumed heir to the chancellor’s position.

When Donald had elevated Roland Sutton to chancellor of the exchequer less than year ago, it had registered as a mild surprise in financial circles. A few eyebrows were raised, but for the most part, the matter was soon forgotten. Donald worried, however, that Colin Moore may have a chip on his shoulder. In light of today’s events, Duncan felt it best to keep Moore on board with all developments, as he was the logical choice to replace the murdered Sutton.

“Colin, please have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Colin inclined his head in appreciation. If he harbored a grudge, it was well hidden behind a curtain of platitudes.

“We have a sticky situation here. Bradley just informed me the assassin evaded our security cameras and is nowhere to be found. They have no idea who this fellow is or where he went.”

Moore’s gray eyes met his, concern evident in their icy reflection. The man’s stark features betrayed no angst, high cheekbones framing a thin nose that Duncan always felt was raised ever so slightly.

“That is terrible, sir. We must find the bastard and make him pay.”

Duncan ran a second hand through his hair, which seemed to grow sparser with each passing day. He had little doubt this job would rob him of every last strand.

“Though it feels coarse, we must look to the future. I’m to make a statement in a few minutes, and one of the issues I’d like to address is Sir Roland’s office.”

Try as he may, Duncan failed to note even a glimpse of reaction. Colin Moore would have been one hell of a poker player.

“I can only imagine the panic people are feeling right now. We need to stop that, and to do so we must restore order. The government is larger than one man, and the last thing I’m going to do is let these bastards win. If we give in to our fear, then they have succeeded.”

Moore inclined his head ever so slightly.

“I’m going to announce that you are replacing Sir Roland as chancellor of the exchequer, effective immediately. I trust you will accept this post?”

Moore sat frozen, unblinking. After a few moments silence, he answered.

“My heart is heavy with grief, but you are correct as always, sir. We must show the citizens that we will not cower in the face of evil. I will accept this honor. For queen and country.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a speech to cobble together.”

Colin Moore rose, shook Duncan’s extended hand. As he walked from the room, back ramrod straight, Duncan couldn’t help but wonder what went through the man’s head.

He said all the right things, was unfailingly polite, but the fact was he always came across as acting slightly above everyone around him, Donald Duncan included. Duncan was familiar with the aristocratic set, having come from a family blessed with both title and money, but he never considered himself to be better than anyone.

Hard work and diligent preparation were the currency of success in his mind, and despite having no evidence to support the notion, Duncan always felt Colin Moore didn’t share those beliefs.

His gaze fell to the blank computer monitor on his desk, and the prime minister focused on the task of calming an embattled nation.

Chapter 5

French Riviera

Saint-Tropez, France

A gentle breeze drifted over light blue water to send soft ripples across the glassy surface. Afternoon sunlight sparkled on the Mediterranean as seagulls floated toward the white sandy beach on which sun-worshipping tourists sipped from crystal glasses.

Anchored at an adjacent marina was a veritable armada of luxury yachts. In a town known the world over as a destination for the rich and famous, there was no such thing as a modest boat.

Fully half the anchored yachts measured one hundred feet in length, with many approaching twice that. Full-time crews bustled about on deck, cleaning, stocking, shining and serving. In addition to the beautiful crafts berthed dockside, several of the floating castles were at sea, anchored just off shore, their wealthy owners enjoying the trappings of moneyed life. However, even among this treasure trove of seafaring toys, one stood out.

Two hundred fifty feet from stem to stern, this shining vessel was painted a deep black, protected by a coat of reflective sealant. She had four decks above water, one below, and boasted a helicopter pad in addition to an array of smaller watercraft that included jet skis, landing boats, and a two-man mini-submarine.

These were only the visible accoutrements, however, as the black-painted hull covered armor plating and a guided missile defense system, custom built in Germany. Intruder detection devices covered the entire craft and surrounding water, and bulletproof windows and doors were standard should any invader manage to board the ship.

Below the waterline, the engine room housed twin Rolls-Royce diesel behemoths capable of propelling the boat at over twenty-five knots.

Even at anchor, the magnificent craft outshined each surrounding vessel with its uncompromising size and elegant construction. Every pair of eyes on the beach and water had stolen a glance, envy in all, and not just for the status it brought. There were other things of beauty than just the boat to take in.

Two extremely gorgeous and completely nude fashion models lay on the sun deck. It would get cold at night, and they took advantage of the early afternoon heat to bronze their flawless skin.

Just below the sun deck’s overhang, shaded from the heat, a man sat alone, eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Dressed in linen pants, creamy white shirt halfway unbuttoned, he enjoyed this privileged view of Saint Tropez’s famed shoreline. At his side sat a cell phone, precariously close to the tumbler of room-temperature Guinness beer that had just been delivered by one of the dozen servants on board.

A sultry voice drifted from overhead.

“Nigel, come join us.”

It was one of those idiotic models begging for attention.

“I’ll be up in a moment. I’ve an important call to make.”

Halfhearted moans of displeasure followed, though he couldn’t have cared less. There was one reason those two were on board, and it wasn’t for the conversation. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, for he understood they, too, were in his company for one simple reason. If Nigel Stirling’s net worth weren’t measured in the billions, those anorexic girls would disappear in an instant.

As if on cue, the phone rattled. Though he appeared to all the world a man at ease, Stirling’s muscles tensed, his throat suddenly dry.

“Yes?”

“I suggest you turn on the news, sir.”

Nigel clicked off. The mission had been a success.

“Turn on the television.”

At his words, a servant appeared from around the corner, remote control in hand. Behind the wet bar to his right, a massive LED screen, barely two inches thick, flashed to life.

Stirling was greeted with a picture of chaos. He watched just long enough to confirm it. The chancellor was dead. Scotland Yard had no leads.

Perfect.

“Mute it.”

The harried reporter went silent. Nigel again picked up the phone and dialed a ten-digit number, beginning with a one, the international code for the United States.

“Sir?”

The man sounded slightly out of breath, almost excited.

“It is done,” Nigel said. “The position should be filled today.”

“That is excellent news. I trust we are to proceed as planned?”

“After I speak with our friends from the Emirates. I’ll be in touch.”

Stirling clicked off, the anxiety in his system slowly giving way to a sense of anticipation. He considered the white beach in front of him, aware that despite the centuries that had passed since his organization was born from a single goal, those beaches had remained the same. A testament to the patience required for success.

Soon, his vision would come to fruition, vindicating all the men whose vision and sacrifice had led to this moment.

The cool breeze ruffled his unbuttoned shirt, whistled past his ears. Nigel felt like celebrating.

“Girls, I do hope you’ve saved room for one more up there.”

Chapter 6

Boston, Massachusetts

It was appropriate that storm clouds hovered over Boston’s Financial District. Inside each sleek, towering building employees sat riveted to a television as news of the British treasurer’s assassination dominated the airwaves. Leveraged buyouts and equity securities took a backseat to the dramatic murder investigation playing out in real-time, the normally oppressive din reduced to quiet murmurs and hushed conversation.

On the top floor of one such building, Spencer Drake was also glued to his television, albeit for a different reason.

President and CEO of Aldrich Securities, Drake’s office oozed power. As Aldrich controlled over half a trillion dollars in total assets, his was a lofty perch. An original Jackson Pollock hung behind his desk, overlooking an office large enough to play basketball in. Plush carpet covered the floor and supported several authentic Persian rugs. Mahogany covered three of the room’s walls, while a fourth consisted solely of floor-to-ceiling windows equipped with automatic dimming and retractable blinds. Seated at a conference table designed for twenty, Drake leaned back in his Herman Miller Aeron chair and waited, his mind far away.

Approaching his sixtieth birthday, Drake considered that this could be the moment he’d been groomed for, the time when two hundred years of effort came to fruition. A manicured hand ran through his light brown hair, professionally styled every two weeks for a mere five hundred dollars. One had to keep up appearances.

Normally quite relaxed, Spencer flicked a tiny speck of dirt from his charcoal gray pinstriped suit. Like every one he owned, it was sewn by his personal tailor at Gieves & Hawkes, the finest in London.