Candleburn (21 page)

42

3am and the streets were deserted, save the occasional Emirati teenager racing his friends along the streets in their 4x4s and Italian sports cars.

For
Blake, the peculiar glimmer of Dubai’s older street lamps, together with the almost smoky humid air, often gave the city in these early hours the ambience of a hard-boiled detective film.

The
fronds of the palm trees glowed at the edges with a shade of grainy-cream. The leaves were silhouetted against the lamps. The buildings had the hacienda air of suburban California.

And
now the stakes all seemed very Philip Marlowe too.

Nate
Aspinal drummed his fingers impatiently.

“Right
here,” he said.

“You’re
down this road?” Blake asked.

“No,
but it’s easier to get to the house from this direction,” Asp replied.

The
Audi turned into a street that would have been at home in any part of Hollywood. Even the road markings were American. The car’s headlights reflected green in the eyes of a stray cat as it scarpered from a lump of carrion festering at the side of the tarmac.

“It
all seems so impractical,” Asp mumbled.

“Which
bit?”

“Harry
is Charles’ son,” Asp said. “There’s no real question of that, which makes this all very silly.”

“I
concur.”

“But
let’s assume he’s not for a moment,” Asp said. “Even then, the only way knowing that yields you any money is if he’s next in line to the throne. To get him there you need to take three people out of the equation, Charles, Harry’s brother William and then William’s child George. Once you’ve somehow accomplished that, only then do you get to hold the DNA test over Harry’s head.”

The
streets thinned into a maze of smaller side roads. Nate pointed the way at each junction.

“Indeed,”
Blake agreed.

“But
even so – even in that narrow window of opportunity – do you even get anything then? Does anyone actually care?”

“How
do you mean?” Blake asked. “Wouldn’t it create a constitutional crisis?”

“I
don’t see why it should,” Asp replied. “The man’s loved. Harry’s been in the top ten UK baby names for the last decade. He’s fought for his country, for Christ’s sakes. This isn’t the young kid who wore a Nazi uniform to a party any more. Sure, he’s had his moments but isn’t that the sort of monarchy the British people would warm to? They’ve been muttering that it’s out of touch for years. Here’s a real man – a man’s man – and the British public like him.”

“There’s
also still enormous sympathy for Harry based on his mother and her tragic death,” Blake said.

“That
too,” Nate agreed. “Plus, even if he’s not Charles’ biological son, by definition he’s his adopted one. The family has taken him under their wing. He is one of them, not just in name but in every sinew of how he’s been brought up.”

“And
you think an adopted son would be accepted as king?” Blake asked.

“Britain
may not be Sweden or Amsterdam but it’s still a socially liberal, tolerant country,” Asp said. “Gay marriage, gay adoption – hell the police generally ignore pot use these days. It may take longer than it does in other parts of Western Europe but the UK is pretty relaxed and progressive. If he has the name that should be enough.”

“That
doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Blake said. “Take Edward – or Andrew. Would the country wear them as king?”

Asp
pulled a face.

“Well,
that just may be another indication of the terrorist’s thinking about the cigarettes.”

“I
don’t follow,” Blake replied.

“There’s
been an increasing push to change the rules of succession,” Nate said. “There are people paid to think about every aspect of constitutionality, I’m sure. There’s been that change to the law so that a daughter takes over the throne if she’s next in line rather than it go strictly through sons first.”

“There
are no daughters,” Blake said hesitantly. “Charles goes to William, goes to his son George.”

“Not
in our scenario where they’ve all been taken out of the picture,” Nate said. “Under that circumstance it goes to Harry and if he’s ruled out, to Andrew.”

“So?”

“Change the law that daughters take possession of the crown and Andrew loses out,” Nate said. “The crown goes to Anne.”

“The
new law only affects those born after 2013” Blake said.

“You’re
telling me in these exceptional circumstances,” Nate asked, “it couldn’t be made retroactively applicable? What do you think Britain would think of another Queen Anne?”

The
Audi rounded the last corner and Nate pointed to his house at the side of the road, behind his familiar steel gate and high concrete fence.

“The
country would have no issues with her becoming Queen,” Blake agreed. “The issue would then be what would happen to the crown when it passed to her children? Since they’re largely free of the media spotlight – that could well work.”

“Except
it would never get that far because Harry would get on the throne,” Asp said, “cigarette butts or no.”

“I’m
not so sure,” Blake said. “I’m open to persuasion but London is not Britain. It doesn’t matter how progressive the UK gets, in the end it all boils down to one thing: which way would the tabloids fall on the issue.”

“Exactly,”
Asp said, tapping his fingers on the dashboard. “In reality it all comes down to the Daily Mail and the Sun. In our hypothetical, Harry – war hero, broad shouldered man – steps into a constitutional vacuum having somehow lost his father, brother and nephew. You’re telling me that if that’s linked to some terrorist plot, that this doesn’t lead to a ‘rally around the flag’ effect?”

Blake
stopped the car in front of Asp’s home and turned to face him directly.

“That’s
it,” Blake said.

“What
is?”

“Why
the cigarettes are so important,” Blake replied. “We were looking for something bigger. How much bigger could it be than killing everyone? Killing Charles, William, the Duchess of Cambridge and their child George? Wouldn’t a play as high stakes as that be worth a string of murders across Dubai?”

***

“You’re insane,” Asp said, exiting the car and walking to his gate.

“Those
cigarettes only become useful if you get Harry closer to the throne.”

“It
doesn’t add up,” Asp replied, putting his keys in the lock and opening the door to his garden.

A
bright security bulb sparkled to life, illuminating the grass and shrubbery with an etherial quality. Nate Aspinal walked swiftly along the path to the door.

“How
does it not add up?” Blake asked.

“Because
the task is as ridiculous,” Asp replied. “Assuming you somehow circumvented the security – a silly assumption for even one of the Royals, these are people who have escorts of snipers along their travel routes – it would be tightened within hours for all the others, probably permanently. So you’d have to hit them all at the same time and how often are they together?”

“True
– but being a super villain isn’t about practicality, it’s about style.”

“It
still gets you nothing,” Asp said firmly. “The show rolls on.”

“And
since when did terrorists care about achieving a result?” Blake said. “Did America collapse after 9-11? Sure there were wars that happened that might not have otherwise and security changes at airports and a president got re-elected who probably would have lost – however, if you’re a terrorist, the act was an end in itself. I don’t think the cigarette butts – or whose son Harry is – is relevant. All that matters is we have something the terrorists want. Everything else is garnish.”

“
I don’t agree,” Asp replied. “This plot is deep. It is well thought out. It has quantifiable ends.”

Blake
and Asp entered the house and clicked on the lights.

It
was a mess.

Shards
from a broken vase were strewn across the parquet flooring, interlaced with orange tulips. Footprints, sand left in the muddy puddles from the flowers, trekked across the wood.

“Stay
by the door,” Blake said calmly. “I want to be sure everything I see is a product of the fight.”

He
moved swiftly across the room, surveying the carnage, piecing together the order of events and tallying it with the details relayed by Asp.

“These
were not random acts that were ends in themselves,” Asp said, surveying the carnage. “There was a plan, one that’s gone awry, sure, but a plan nonetheless.”

“How
can you be certain?” Blake replied.

“Getting
hold of the cigarette butts on its own speaks of organization,” Asp stated. “This is three-dimensional chess. It would have taken not months – years – of preparation. You don’t do that unless you have an end in mind that’s bigger than the sum of the parts.”

Blake neared a window. He pulled back the curtain and grimaced.

“What?”
Nate asked.

“I
don’t like your taste in pottery dolls.”

“Seriously?”
Nate replied.

“Yes,
seriously,” Blake said, returning to the main hall. “They’re hideous. It’s like a Stephen King novel on that window ledge.”

Blake
searched the white-painted walls, hoping for a thumb or finger print, left by the kind of farm labourer he’d seen at Alice’s apartment. The walls were pristine apart from a child’s multi-coloured crayon graffiti near an electrical socket.

“You
may be reading events backwards,” Blake said, getting closer to the floor and scanning the footprints close up. “Your wife and kids have been taken. You want there to be meaning to this. I’ve actually faced off against these people. I’ve seen only hastily cobbled together actions, designed around a single result: getting hold of the puzzle box.”

“No,
you’re ignoring the effort that’s gone on,” Nate said. “None of this smacks of a crime of opportunity. These people have been thinking this through. They have resources – think of what they’ve expended on this so far. People, cars – they’ve had enough swing to be able to play the local mobsters like puppets; that on its own implies influence that stretches across different Emirati fiefdoms, multiple families. You don’t do that unless you have a tangible goal that you’re aiming towards.”

Blake
moved out of Nate’s sight and into the kitchen. He checked the back door.

“Do
you lock your back entrance?” he called out.

“Always,”
Asp replied.

“Then
this one was picked,” Blake said, returning to the hall. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe these people are more trained and less ‘brute force with a little luck’ than I thought. We’re still no closer, though, to the big question: what is this mighty goal?”

Silence.

Asp sighed.

“Perhaps,
you’re right,” he said. “Perhaps, it’s just to kill everyone, impossible as that may seem.”

Blake’s eyes flashed.

“What?”
Nate asked.

“Not
... necessarily... impossible...” Blake said, his face turning pallid. “It’s an outside chance – but I may just have figured out how you could do it. And if I’m right, it would happen today.”

43

Blake was back in the car, fumbling with his cheap, new mobile.

“I
don’t understand why you won’t just tell me,” Asp said huffily as he got in.

“Close
the door,” Blake said.

The
mobile didn’t connect into Blake’s hands-free kit. He pressed the speakerphone button, allowing Asp to hear the distorted ringtone as the low-quality device struggled with the loud volume.

“Hello?”
a voice groggily answered.

“Mac?
It’s Blake.”

“For
God’s sake, Blake – it’s four in the morning,” Mac replied. “The only reason I answered is that Eleanor insisted. And that bloody cat of yours won’t stop crying in the kitchen. What the hell is so damn important?”

“The
Anglo-India trade talks conclude today, right?” Blake asked.

“If
this is a journalistic issue...”

“Mac
– have I ever called you at this time before? This is serious.”

“Alright
then, I’ll play along. Yes, the talks end today. A historic agreement will be signed providing total freedom of capital movement, business access, patent protection improvements and improved labour mobility,” Mac said.

Asp
stared at Blake. His face was incredulous.

“Are
you a moron?” he said. “You think this is about a trade deal?”

“Shut
up, Nate,” Blake replied.

“And
who in the hell is that?” Mac raged. “I’m not supposed to be discussing this with anyone. Blake – you, I know and trust...”

“Please
Mac, bear with me,” Blake said. “This is – in all seriousness – a matter of life and death. In the car with me is Nate Aspinal...”

“That
wanker from Chrome?” Mac exclaimed. “Corporate Pinkertons – oh, this really is the limit...”

“Whose
wife and children were kidnapped at gunpoint earlier this evening,” Blake continued.

Silence.

“Got your attention now? Good,” Blake said. “This trade deal is important for the UK. The government’s pinning its hopes on it pulling Britain out of the global recession, right?”

“Yes,”
Mac said.

“So
it stands to reason they’re going to make a big splash over the signing because it’ll boost their re-election hopes, which right now are looking pretty crappy,” Blake said. “And what better way to make a splash than for it to be the first international trip for Prince William, his beautiful wife and their gorgeous child: a shining photo opportunity for doing business in Britain.”

More silence.

“How
do you know about that?” Mac said in a hushed tone. “For security reasons their visit is beyond classified.”

“Then
the fact that I know about it should give you a further reason to believe what I’m about to tell you,” Blake said. “Later today, there will be an assassination attempt on the Royal entourage.”

“How
do you know this?”

“Through
too many things to explain them all right now,” Blake replied. “I deduced it, the same way I worked out that Prince William would be here.”

“You’re
not instilling me with confidence, Blake,” Mac said. “How will it be done?”

“That
I don’t know.”

“When
will it happen?”

“Today.
That’s all I have.”

“Where
the attempt will be conducted?”

Blake
bit his lip.

“I
don’t have that either.”

“For
goodness sake, Blake, this is ridiculous.”

“Listen,”
Blake replied. “This morning I was sent by messenger a lock box. I managed to get into it and it contained three cigarette butts. They’re alleged to belong to Prince Harry. They’re part of a plan...”

“Come
on, Blake,” Mac interrupted. “Listen to yourself, man. Do you at least know who’s behind this alleged plot?”

“A
terrorist group called Ash-Shumu’a”

“So,
a fairy story is behind a plot to kill the second-in-line to the British throne through an unknown mechanism at an unknown time for unknown reasons, except to say that it’s connected to a box of cigarette ends you received by courier that may, or may not, have belonged to Prince Harry?”

Blake
paused.

“When
you say it like that it sounds so implausible,” Blake said sarcastically.

“Hmm,”
Mac replied.

“Okay,”
Blake said. “Talk with the head of the Prince’s security. Have him ask the local Ceebies about two dead Somalis found in a 4x4, totalled in a water trap on the Montgomerie Address golf course. Also, there was an explosion this evening that took out an entire floor of a block of apartments in the Marina. It just so happens, the flat that was the source of the explosion belonged to one of my journalistic colleagues Alice Thorne.”

“The
one you’ve never liked?”

“Right.”

“And who killed her?” Mac asked. “The other weasel in your office?”

A
pause.

“Yes.
In conjunction with Ash-Shumu’a”

“The
terrorists who don’t exist...” Mac said wearily.

Another
silence.

Asp
pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. It had been a long day on little sleep and with the adrenaline easing off, he was beginning to tire.

“Mac,”
Asp said. “Blake isn’t alone in believing this. I was reluctant to at first, as well. As further evidence, you can also ask the Ceebies about the mysterious killings of two of my colleagues, who were found tortured to death in motel bathrooms. I used my influence to have them chalked up as bizarre suicides following sex games that went wrong.”

“So
you’re in on this delusion as well?” Mac asked.

“It’s
not a delusion,” Blake stated. “It costs you nothing to be safe and take extra precautions with the Royals today.”

“I
presume the two of you have heard of a folie-a-deux?” Mac said. “It’s by far the most under-rated psychological phenomena in the world – particularly today.”

“Mac!”
Blake shouted. “Please! Just talk to the Prince’s security detail.”

A
pause.

“Alright,”
Mac replied reluctantly. “It’s half-past four now. They’ll be up in 90 minutes. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“Thank
you,” Blake said.

“And
don’t forget to pick up your bloody cat,” Mac said loudly and slammed the phone down.

Blake
and Asp sat quietly for a few moments.

Blake
wound his window lower and fumbled through his coat for a cigarette. Lighting the end, he began to gulp at it as though he were a crashed pilot in the Sahara chancing upon an oasis.

“What’s
next?” Blake asked with smoke clouding from his mouth.

Asp
didn’t have time to answer. His own phone began ringing.

They
looked at one another uncertainly. Asp picked up the call.

“Hello?”
he said.

A
mechanically altered voice began speaking:

“Listen
to me: I have your wife and daughters.”