Your Royal Hostage (5 page)

Instead she said: 'We all want the same thing.'

'Innocent Rights,' said Beagle, and he took the lobe of Lamb's delicate ear in his fingers and gave it a little sharp nip.

This afternoon Monkey was angry. Lamb could tell by the way he sucked down his lower lip.

'What was all that about?' he asked Tom in a low voice, pointing to the headline in the
Standard,
palace outrage
(although Tom had actually asked him if he could look up the time of a film - another agreed code).

'It was fun, darling.'

'Fun?.
Fun for who?'

'For us.'

'And the blood? Fun for the animals? You know how careful we are. We simply cannot afford to fall into
their
trap of violence -'It wasn't animals' blood. Cool down, Monko.' 'It wasn't
human
blood! Are you crazy?'

‘I
t was paint, Monkey, paint. Oxblood, I think it's called. I'll 
get you the name if you want to repaint your posh dining-room.'

'Yes,' Beagle chipped in impudently. 'We thought we'd give the little Princess an early wedding present. Anything wrong with that? And advertise our presence, as it were. A trailer for the big show.'

Monkey was silent. Lamb supposed that he did not trust himself to speak. He turned over the page of his newspaper and then turned it back.

'Any luck with the shoes, dear?' Chicken spoke to Pussy in her adopted character, which she was not supposed to do during a meeting.

'Nothing in beige leather at all,' Pussy responded gallantly, scuffling in one of her plastic bags. 'Not a real beige anyway; plenty of cream and canary. I settled for taupe.'

Actually Pussy, like many of the members oflnnoright, avoided leather in all its forms and thus her shoe shopping took rather a different form as she searched for synthetic footwear, made in large comfortable sizes for her heavy feet. The avoiding of leather was not however mandatory for members of Innoright (it was not considered in the same light as fur, for example). Monkey's polished shoes looked like leather as did Lamb's; one could not be quite sure about Chicken's classic shoes, possibly patent leather, possibly imitation.

Just as Pussy had not in fact been searching for beige leather, so Pussy was not actually the harmless if slightly fussy woman she appeared to be. Pussy, together with her only child, a daughter called Caro (otherwise known as Otter) had been responsible for some of the most daring night-raids on those boutiques, beauty shops and stores which stocked cosmetics notoriously tested out on animals. This was because Caro-Otter was, or rather had been, a model. But Otter (like her mother) was cunning; she had not advertised her strong views on the protection of animals to her agent, beyond declining gracefully to model fur coats (and that was by now a not uncommon stance among top models). Instead she had seized every opportunity to garner information as to which products were actually 'guilty'.

Then by night with Pussy she had poured super-glue into locks, and sprayed walls with the red Innoright logo with its huge
pathetic animals' eyes gazing out of the letter O. Otter and Pussy had a particular taste for paint-stripping the cars of the smart young (male) managing directors of cosmetic firms who dated Otter following a photographic session on behalf of their products. However mother and daughter were also careful to paint-strip women's cars as well; the fact that it was not so emotionally satisfying was, they agreed, no reason to avoid such a necessary task.

But Otter was dead, dead in a car crash, the car driven by one of those smart young executives who was dating Otter and had dined rather too well in the process. (The man himself had survived.) She would have been twenty-two this month - the same age as Princess Amy, something which Pussy occasionally bore in mind when looking at newspaper photographs of nubile Amy, Amy smiling fetchingly into the camera, 5' 3", plump and privileg
ed Amy who was alive while 5' 10
" attenuated willowy Otter lay in her grave.

Pussy had become quite ruthless since Otter's death, and her single-handed attack on butchers' shops (including the savaging of an Alsatian which guarded one shop at night) had caused some disquiet among the Innoright Overground Group who had not been consulted.

'Even if Alsatians are incurable meat-caters, as you know we regard that as human failure,' began the Chairman. 'Besides which, the whole subject of canine re-education towards vegetarianism is in its infancy, and Innoright Overground policy —'

'That Alsatian tore a cat to pieces last week,' said Pussy coldly.

'Yes, but surely using a
knitting-needle -'

Monkey thought of that conversation now as he gazed at Pussy's broad slightly flushed face. He had been given a free hand to choose his own team by the Innoright Overground, and had thus not mentioned to them that he had chosen the woman who was known as Pussy. He had believed at the time that he could handle her, use her dedication, her madness springing from heartbreak, for the good of the cause. As with Beagle in the National Portrait Gallery, Monkey hoped he had not made a mistake.

Monkey put down the paper again. As though none of the 
preceding conversation had taken place, Monkey and the others had a series of quick, efficient, half-muttered exchanges on the subject of weaponry and the Lair. Whatever their dissensions, progress was being made. Fox was short and to the point. He announced that he had followed up those mysterious contacts to which he had referred at an earlier meeting, and expected to be able to provide the desired weapons - 'purely symbolic of course,' as he put it - at the appropriate moment.

Monkey, who knew about Fox's background, was not surprised; the others, if they were impressed, tried to hide it.

It was Tom who drew the meeting to a close with a sudden surprising announcement.

'Going to the Press Conference, aren't I, darling? Who's a clever boy, then? The Royal Press Conference, yes, not Number Ten and the Pri-jolly Minister. The Royal Press Conference.'

Beagle smiled sardonically and said nothing. Pussy, Chicken and Fox stared. Lamb shivered. The train was drawing into a station. The doors began to open.

Tom swung on the strap above Monkey's head and was halfway out of the doors before anyone dared react.

Tom darted back to pick up a packet he had left - presumably deliberately - on his seat. Impudently he blew a kiss: was it in
my
direction, thought Lamb guiltily.

'Tell you more next week; look for me on telly in the meantime; creating a disturbance, Oxblood paint and all. No, Monko, that's a joke.'

'Circle Line between Paddington and Moorgate,' was all Monkey had time to say before Tom was gone. The stiffness of his tone reminded the others that according to the Underground Plan it was Monkey's right to leave the train first.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sex and Security

'Surely we can't ask her
that.'
Jemima Shore leant over Rick Vancy's shoulder and gazed at the list of questions, neatly typed out under the heading of '
tus
: From the Desk of Richard Vancy.'

'Oh, I guess we can. Kind of late on, when she's relaxed.' Rick Vancy spoke most agreeably. It was his habitual tone, Jemima had noticed. Since his arrival in England, Rick had not lost his temper or raised his voice on a single occasion; indeed, his voice actually got yet more agreeable when times were trying. His appearance was agreeable too: he might even have been English with his fair hair, high narrow bony forehead; an English intellectual, or rather film star playing an English intellectual since, come to think of it, English intellectuals did not actually look like the late and much lamented Leslie Howard in real life.

But Rick Vancy was not English, in spite of vague rumours that his mother had been English and equally vague counter-rumours that it was actually Rick Vancy's first wife who had been English, or that Rick Vancy's first wife, herself American, was now married to an Englishman. There was even a suggestion that Rick Vancy had been to Cambridge - the University; but this rumour, coming as it did from an Oxford man in the shape of Jamie Grand, Jemima put down to his characteristic sense of mischief; the editor of
Literature
was wont to discover alumni of Cambridge University in the most extraordinary places. The real truth, thought Jemima, was that the English were simply unable to accept that anyone could look as 'English' as Rick Vancy
undoubtedly did and not have some ancestral connection with the country. It was either a rather touching form of possessivcness or less touching snobbishness. 
The fact that Rick Vancy did
show a certain degree of Anglic
ization as time wore on, Jemima attributed to an admirable ability to study his surroundings rather than to youthful experiences or genetic inheritance. His clothes for example: when Jemima first met Rick (at his suggestion, for a drink in the Palm Court of the Ritz) most of his garments seemed to have been bought in St James's including, imp
robably, a waistcoat. Rick eyed Jemima's Kathe
rine Hamnett total look speculatively; the next time they met, all traces of St James's were gone and Rick Vancy was wearing something like the masculine equivalent of Jemima's radical chic. The result was that he no longer looked like an American aping an Englishman, but quite as English as anyone else at the Groucho Club (Jemima's suggestion); that is to say, aiming to look American.

'Surely we can't ask her that?' The question to which Jemima was pointing read: 'Your Royal Highness, if you will pardon me saying so, you are a very beautiful young woman. How do you feel about the other very beautiful women with whom your fiance has been linked in the past?'

Rick furrowed his clear forehead and re-read the question. 'Yeah, I get you. You mean it's sexist,' he said after a pause. 'Have to phrase it round another way.'

'No, you dummy, this is England, not so much sexist as impossible. Bang goes our exclusive interview. We'll be lucky if we get to talk to her dogs if you ask something like that.' For a moment, Jemima looked puzzled. 'Besides, I thought all the questions had to be handed in to the Palace. Rick, for God's sake, you don't mean you put this down on the list. No, I see you didn't. It was going to be a little surprise -'

'I thought this was going to be a fun programme,' groaned Rick, taking out a gold pencil and scoring through the offending question. (Earlier when he had lent the pencil to Jemima, she had noted it had been presented to him for 'exceptional broadcasting services' during the most recent Hostage Crisis.) 'That's what they promised me back in the States. "Richard, have yourself some fun," they said to me, "after Iran, Beirut, the Libya problem, Syria and all the rest of it, you deserve to have yourself some fun." So out goes the sex angle, is that it? Can you be serious? I see you are. So what's left? Security, that's what's left. Out goes sex, in comes security. Not nearly so much fun. Now sex
and
security, that would have been great.'

'I am sure you can have a great deal of fun with the security angle,' suggested Jemima in what she intended to be a tone of gentle mockery.

But Rick responded quite seriously: 'Yeah, that's right. I think I can. If we play it up: the fairy story that turned into a nightmare; correction, for the time being, the fairy story that
may
turn into a nightmare, and then when it does - well, the possibilities are awesome, aren't they?' He leant back and gave an appreciative sigh.

'Mmm. Opium, isn't it? No, not for the people, though I suppose Royalty is the new religion with you guys. Your perfume I meant. Mmm. Listen, I don't anticipate any problems on this one. Happily, I was able to question the Ayatollah Khomeini on security, compared to which Buckingham Palace, or whichever palace is involved, should present no problem at all.' Rick Vancy, eyes closed, was by now leaning so far back that he was almost touching Jemima.

Privately, Jemima thought that the Palace could probably hold its own with the Ayatollah in its silence over security matters, but that would be for Rick Vancy to find out for himself. She also thought that if Rick Vancy was into perfume-guessing, he might find more problems in that direction too than he anticipated.

Aloud she said: 'Miss Dior actually. The perfume. Opium comes on rather too strong for me.'

'Then I'm going to get you a huge bottle of Opium; to see if I can make you change your mind.' But Rick Vancy leant gracefully forward again as he spoke.

Rick and Jemima attended the Royal Wedding Press Conference attended by two historical researchers hired by
tus
; one was English, one was American, both brandishing enormous folders full of genealogical details concerning the happy couple.

Rick explained this was because 'we don't want to look cheapskates compared to
cbs, nbc, abc
and co. Somebody had the bright idea of hiring a couple of royal biographers, titled ladies, I think, there's a whole crowd of them in your country, they do a family act on this kind of show, but anyhow the supply had run out by the time we got to think of it.'

The conference itself was being held in the large modern Republican Hotel in Plantagenet Square, Mayfair (Rick Vancy thought the combination of names awesome: it took Jemima some time to see why). Cumberland Palace was deemed too small to handle the ravening hordes of Press expected to attend; hence the exclusive nature of Jemima's projected interview with the happy couple at a later date. (Something, she had learned, whose genesis lay in the bridegroom's business interests in the States ... but no one was being too precise about that.) This would, she had been promised, take place in the Palace drawing-room, the Palace garden or whatever area the demands of the English summer dictated.

There was a security check at a large modern desk in the hotel foyer - rather a British check, Jemima felt. Passes were scrutinized and checked against a list, but no serious attempt was made to match passes to faces. After that, the arrangements irresistibly reminded her of some huge children's party, with journalists as clamouring already-spoilt children while sets of presents were handed out. The 'presents' were contained in zipped-up plastic holders stamped in gold with a variety of symbols including coats of arms, bells, flowers and horseshoes, the formality of the heraldry contrasting rather oddly with the rest. Their colour, Jemima noted, was not quite Amy Blue, although the unusual searing turquoise of the plastic indicated that a gallant attempt had been made to match it.

Were these folders actually being presented by Cumberland Palace? Had Royalty really gone down into the marketplace this time, Jemima wondered. The answer, she discovered, was both yes and no: yes if you considered such
objets d'art
inherently vulgar and demeaning, even to a Press Conference; no if you accepted that a large sum had been paid to the Princess's favourite charity for the honour of manufacturing and distributing them. In short, the holders and their contents were the gift of a rival television station. Since the name of the television station was writ small, and that of the charity writ large, Jemima supposed that the 
answer to h
er original question must be no -
She started to leaf 
through her own folder.

Inside each folder were two thick dossiers on the ancestry of the bride and brideg
room, which looked imposing as w
ell as substantial until a quick glance inside revealed that there was not much here that any quick-witted journalist could not have found out from
Debrett's Peerage
or
Burke's,
tus's
English researcher was a girl in her twenties called Susanna Blanding; her figure was quite plump although the features in the makeup-less face beneath the mass of untidy dark curly hair were in contrast delicate and rather pretty. She was smoking, however, as she entered the room and looked distraught at being asked to stop. Clearly historical research was a nerve-wracking profession.

Jemima watched Susanna as she opened the embossed blue cover; her expression was first apprehensive, then relieved, finally indignant.

'I've covered all of this,' she hissed at the American researcher who was reading the document quite happily, in here.' She tapped her own voluminous genealogical documentation.

‘I
s that so?' The American, a laid-back youth called simply Curt (what on earth were his credentials? Jemima wondered) went on reading.

'There are at least two mistakes on the first page,' went on Susanna Blanding in a louder voice, i wouldn't take it all that seriously as a work of reference, if I were you. You might feed in wrong information.'

is that so?' repeated Curt; he was almost as gentle in his tone as Rick Vancy. 'Listen to this: the Prince's grandmother was a Russian Grand
-
duchess who danced with Rasputin and bequeathed jewellery worth four million pounds. The so-called unlucky Rasputin sapphires alone were worth -'

'Great-grandmother,' put in Susanna sharply without any attempt to moderate her tone. 'And the Rasputin story is poppycock! What were they supposed to dance? Cossack war dances? As for
the unlucky sapphires, in here I
point out -'

'Anything you say,' said Curt pacifically, continuing to read. Once or twice he was heard to murmur, 'quite amazing,' which incurred sharp looks from Susanna Blanding.

The other 'presents' were less controversial if more childish: a huge unfolding family tree showing Princess Amy's place in the British Royal Family. Susanna glowered at it although she could not immediately spot an error beyond an irritated aside: 'That's the
sovereign's
coat of arms at the top; now you do realize. Curt, that Princess Amy herself has no right -' But by this time a plethora of objects, including a paper-knife with the royal cipher, pencils and biros with more gold symbols stamped on them and even
amy means i love you
buttons were pouring out of the turquoise plastic. Susanna stuffed them in the pockets of her baggy velvet jacket, worn over a man's striped shirt belted at the waist and a short tight - too tight - dark-grey skirt. That left her free to vet the sheaf of large glossy photographs provided including one of the bridal coach.

'Would you say that was the Scottish State Coach?' she asked anxiously, enmity temporarily forgotten, 'because if not -' Curt was however busy pinning on his
amy means i love you
button - special blue and gold version, with a photograph of the Princess, smiling rather shyly, taken several years back, crowning the message. He evidently had no views on this important question, and Susanna sank back again in renewed disgust.

At the Press Conference itself, it was the topic of sex which reared its ugly head first before that of security. A French reporter, interrupting details of arrangements for the Great Day itself with great politeness, enquired of the Palace spokesman whether Mademoiselle Mirabella Prey would be at the wedding breakfast. Major Pat Smylie-Porter, as opening royal bat, was however more than equal to this query. (Jemima suspected that the Major might prove a cool customer when she noticed that he sported an
amy means i love you
button in the lapel of his dark-grey suit instead of the expected carnation.) He bent on the questioner - a small dark man in neat denims with a large handbag over his shoulder - a benevolent gaze. Jemima was reminded of a wartime story in which an English officer put in charge of a platoon of Jewish refugee intellectuals, anxious to fight for their adopted country, announced that he anticipated no problems 'since he was used to native troops'.

'A very private affair, the wedding breakfast,' beamed the Major. 'So private I haven't even seen the list m'self. No idea who's on it, no idea at all. But I can tell you what they're going to eat -' He shuffled through a sheaf of papers. 'Princess Chicken, is that right?' The Major chuckled, 'Sounds a bit odd, I must admi
t. Now where are we? Here we are
.
Poulet a la Princesse.
Sounds better in French, doesn't it. Even my French. Now you're going to ask me for the recipe, and I'm afraid I can't tell you that either.' So the Major bumbled purposefully on, as though pinpointing possible trouble spots, darting little glances the while from beneath bushy eyebrows, which were very black compared to his silvered hair. In this way he was possibly more prepared than the rest of the restlessly heterogeneous assembly for the sudden irruption of a loud and strident voice talking very fast.

There was a general stir. Susanna Blanding turned and glared: she looked quite shocked at this apparent affront to majesty. Even Curt sat up a little straighter in his chair. A few moments later, Susanna, handing her clipboard to Jemima, left, as though such a distressing intervention had made a quick puff at a cigarette absolutely essential. On return, she certainly reeked of smoke.