Your Royal Hostage (7 page)

'Here's one of them. Masses of them about, of course. A thousand manufactured. Quite a job tracing them. At the same time, shouldn't be allowed, should it, giving something as sharp as this to a lot of journalists.'

'They're not children -' murmured Vaillant. Pompey merely cocked an eyebrow.

'At least we know the murder weapon. Although we've kept quiet about the weapon for the time being to the Press. The hotel cooperated:
they
didn't want any bad publicity. We'll release that titbit when its suits us, not before. We also know the approximate time. But who and why: that, my boy, is what we are here to find out. At the moment it's strictly person unknown.'

'What do we know about him, sir? Beyond the fact that he had a valid Press pass to the conference?'

'Give me that bit of paper.' Pompey stretched forward. The movement made him wince. He stopped. 'Go on then, read it out, boy.'

'Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert, journalist. A.k.a. Animal Rights activist. Known to have joined several Animal Rights movements, most recently Innoright - Innoright? Reason to believe he was part of the Innoright cell that made the red-paint raid on Cumberland Palace last -' Vaillant stopped.

'Reason to believe, sir?' he enquired delicately. 'Information received? You don't mean - we've got a source around that neck of the woods?'

Pompe
y grunted. 'Something of the sort. As you know, we've all been scared silly about these Animal Rights loonies ever since the Westminster Square incident. Yes, loonies. I said loonies and I meant loonies. They're insane in other words. Terrorists and insane. You can't begin to predict what they'll do. Far be it from me to call for the return of your wandering Irish terrorist, let alone your friendly neighbourhood Arab -' Pompey grunted again and then coughed to show it was one of his jokes.

Vaillant, alerted, gave a discreet smile.

'But these fellows,' went on Pompey, 'men and women, the women being among the worst by the way, you've no idea what they'll think of next. So many amateurs getting into the game, too, none of them on our books already. Not playing the game by the rules, because they don't know what the rules are.'

Perceiving this was not a joke, Vaillant asked: 'Has terrorism got rules, sir?'

'The only rule in terrorism is that things will always be different from the last time. You know that. But terrorists, like any other professionals, have patterns of behaviour, and, even more to the point, professional links. They're not in the main criminals, but they do become criminals. In short, somewhere along the way, generally quite soon along the way, your idealistic terrorist meets up with the criminal fraternity. And that's where we come in.'

'Because we meet up with the criminal fraternity quite soon along the way too. In the line of work,' added Vaillant hastily.

'Exactly so. Of course we've got our links with the criminal fraternity — how would we get on without them? How would they get on without them? And that leads us to the terrorists; or in certain cases leads them to us. But these amateurs' - Pompey exclaimed with disgust - 'many of them have never done anything wrong before in their life.' He stopped and then added in a sombre voice: 'But when they do plunge in - just think of Westminster Square again. The most frightful wilful destruction I can remember. And I've been a policeman all my life.'

'Frightening people, sir.'

'Frightening indeed. So that's when we decided to infiltrate them. Take them seriously, especially with this wedding coming up. We've been lucky twice — Charles and Andy. Got them home and dry, if you get my meaning. And the young ladies too of course,' Pompey added hastily in case Vaillant had what Pompey mentally termed 'Views' on the subject of the opposite sex. 'That still doesn't necessarily mean that we'll be lucky the third time. Unless we take all the proper precautions.'

'No such thing as luck in our business,' pronounced Vaillant sententiously. It was one of Pompey's own phrases. Vaillant was rewarded with an approving glance.

'And this time,' pursued Pompey, 'we have a royal young lady at the centre of it all. A born princess and a born prince. What's more, a prince who's a foreigner. He could attract all sorts -'

'He
has
attracted all sorts if you believe the
Sunday Clueless,'
began Vaillant recklessly and then stopped. Pompey appeared not to have heard.

'What's more, a prince with an international sporting reputation. And by the way, my boy, when I say sporting, I am not referring to the
Exclusive's
intimate revelations. Fancy reading that rubbish!'

Vaillant blushed: 'It was in the line of duty, sir, background material.'

'Ah, just so. I must tell that to Mrs Pompey. She read it too, I believe, while I was pulling up the bulbs in the garden, ready for her begonias. Could it have been background material for her too, do you suppose?'

But this time wild horses would not have dragged a reply from Detective Sergeant Vaillant.

'Photographs of our Prince killing this, that and the other plastered all over the Press. That could bring the nasties right out of the woodwork. So, as I was saying, we had a source inside it, a good chap too. Joined a lot of these organizations to get animal credibility as it were. Then concentrated on one of them: a small one. Innoright. Innocent Rights. Get it?

'He told us it was mainly full of nice innocent people who love Pussy and Rover and don't like the idea of any harm coming to them, let alone being cut up by nasty scientists. Hardly frightening people. Then there's the vegetarian brigade, nothing wrong with them either, I've got lots of sympathy for that, and as for these chicken factories, the calves — you should hear Mrs Portsmouth on that subject. I sometimes worry about my steak and chips.' Pompey laughed and after a moment Vaillant (who did as a matter of fact have vegetarian leanings, although no 'Views' on women's rights) laughed too.

'Then our source got on to something more serious,' continued Pompey. 'Thought that Innoright might be up to something. Or
Inner
Innoright was up to something. By being all helpful about 
the place, and making friends, one particular friend, he stumbled on one or two clues.' 'Clues?'

'People who were supposed to have formally resigned from Innoright in protest against this, that and the other. Putting it on record. Then still dealing with it secretly. Odd that. The last message he gave definitely implied there was something rather frightening going on. Connected in some way to the wedding.'

'That was the last message. So what does he say now about all this?'

'He doesn't say anything. Because when last seen, he had a bright blue paper-knife stuck in him; which makes it difficult. Oh, didn't I make it clear?' Pompey gave Vaillant the full benefit of his most foxy smile.

'Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert was our man inside Innoright.'

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Across Your Body

A few miles away from both Pompey at Scotland Yard (shoes eased off) and Princess Amy at Cumberland Palace (shoes kicked off) yet another pair of shoes was lying loose. Ladies' shoes. However these ladies' shoes, except that they were also high-heeled, bore little similarity to those of Princess Amy. The shoes on the hearthrug in Eaton Square were in another sense of the word hardly ladylike. They were shiny black patent with inlets of glinting mirror glass and slashes of silver leather; the heels were extraordinarily spindly.

'Mirabella,' said Prince Ferdinand, breathing heavily, 'you are insane.' For the woman who had stepped out of the shoes had also stepped out of her clothes, that is to say, a black crepe dress ornamented with similar silver and glass motifs lay on the floor beside the shoes, the glass segments winking oddly as they caught the light; the impression was of fallen Christmas-tree ornaments.

Mirabella Prey raised her arms above her head in a graceful arc and pointed one toe in an equally graceful balletic position. The effect was not however of the ballet with its detachment and exquisite formality, but of something more primitive, a mating dance perhaps. Mirabella's naked body, sinuous (how many workouts, dance routines, exercises?) and brown (how many summers in Greece and. Marbella?) could have been photographed as she stood, her face just slightly in the shade, her black hair flowing down between her small high breasts, for the cover of some Health and Beauty book.

As Ferde
l, still breathing heavily, concentrated on this reflection to calm him, he realized that the thought was not a random one -Mirabella had appeared in just such a pose, with the sketchy addition of a highly cut-away black leotard, on the cover of her own best-selling book of exercises, every exercise based on the natural movements of the wild cat family or something of the sort. What had it been called?
Wild Woman, Good Life?
No, the other way round,
Wild Life, Good Woman.
That sounded even less plausible. He gave up, feeling calmer; all proceeds went towards the protection of wild life, of that he was quite certain. Exotic animals, naturally.

'Alors, mon Prince, je te plais encore?'
Mirabella let her arms sink into some form of suppliant position; she managed nonetheless to continue to look uncommonly predatory.

'Mirabella, you arc crazy,' replied Ferdel carefully in English, taking a step back. Suppliant or n
ot, he did not trust her. Mirabe
lla stretched out one beautiful brown arm in his direction; the arm was not bare unlike the body from which it sprang, for on the arm glistened an enamel and diamond bracelet fa
stened with a puma's head. Ferde
l recognized it because he had given it to Mirabella as - hopefully — a farewell present; he still remembered the fuss Mirabella had made about the anatomical details of the puma which the jeweller had stupidly confused with those of a leopard. Then he stepped forward again and picked up the glittering black crepe heap on the floor.

'Cover yourself. At once.'

'Oh Ferdel,' purred Mirabella without moving. 'You are squairre,' - she extended the word. 'The lectle princess, she does that to you so soon?
Merde, alors.'
Mirabclla put her hand down as if to cover the noticeably large square black shadow on her brown body; the gesture could conceivably in another woman have been on
e of Eve-like modesty; in Mirabe
lla however it was quite clearly one of Eve-like invitation.

'Darling, why don't we fuck?' she purred again, in an accent which was surely heavier than her usual one. 'Just once, or maybe more than once. I like this room very much,
trcs homme,
it reminds me of you. It would be so amusing' - she perceived Ferdel's
wince - 'Darling, if you're tired '

'Dress and get out. I have nothing more to say.' Ferdel flung the clothes at her. He looked so intensely angry, his mouth a thin even line, that this time Mirabella herself took a pace back. The glittering clothes landed at her feet.

So she was still naked when the heavy polished doors opened abruptly and the butler Taplow, in shirt sleeves and an apron over his striped trousers, half fell, was half propelled into the room. Behind him, scarcely more appropriately dressed in jeans, anoraks, hoods and those creepy stocking masks which obliterate the features by substituting other less human ones, were two figures. One of them held an automatic pistol. Taplow was gabbling something like 'Your Highness, I'm sorry.'

Then the taller of the two men - they both seemed to be men although one could not be absolutely sure - pushed Taplow right down on to the floor and put his foot on the butler's white-shirted back. The pistol was now pointing unwaveringly in the direction of the Prince. All this time, Mirabella, although not directly threatened by any weapon, had stood still, holding her position of a lascivious Eve. Her clothes remained in the black and glittering heap at her feet. Ferdel made a movement, perhaps towards her clothes, perhaps towards the stationary and naked woman. Instantly the taller of the intruders, his foot remaining on Taplow's back, turned his weapon in the direction of the woman.

'Prince,' he said in a muffled voice, more muffled than perhaps a mere stocking mask would explain, 'You will now do what we say.'

Fe
rdel made a gesture with his hands - long hands held high in the air, narrow lips curling slightly - which seemed to indicate both politely and disdainfully that in view of the threat to the woman he had little choice.

'Stand beside the lad
y.' Ferde
l hesitated an instant, noted the unaltered position of the gun, and walked slowly and coolly, sauntered as it were, in the direction of Mirabella.

'Take her hand.'

This time there was a perceptible pause before the Prince did as he was commanded. After a moment the tall man in the stocking mask gave a small imperious wave of the pistol, still held on the woman.

'Take it. We mean what we say.'

The Prince picked up Mirabella's hand with its many glittering rings, in his. There was a tiny clink: possibly one of her rings had clashed with his heavy gold signet ring. Then there was a sudden radiant flash as the diamond bracelet with the puma's head slid like a fall
ing star along-her naked arm. Fe
rdel's face was expressionless.

The short man then stepped forward and, raised on his toes, pulled at the Prince's dark-blue knitted silk tie. He succeeded in loosening it. Then he undid the top button of his shirt.

'Take off his jacket.' The muffled voice of the man with the gun gave the order. At the same time the man with the gun edged his front foot forward, the other still planted on Taplow's back. Taplow however was apparently so inert - was he conscious? his back was heaving in an odd way - that the pressure of the foot hardly seemed necessary.

As the short man struggled to remove Ferdel's dark-blue
jacket, the Prince neither obstructed nor helped him; that in itself made it a difficult operation in view of the Prince's superior height. Eventually the jacket lay on the floor, joining the heap of Mirabella's
clothes. Fe
rdel shrugged his shoulders as though to settle himself in his new garb and for a moment seemed about to put his hand up to his neck as though to assure himself that the shirt was properly set without the tie. It was obviously a characteristic gesture and as such not intended to be threatening. A look at the man with the gun however stayed his hand. Ferdel, who had not glanced directly at Mirabella throughout the episode, now stared ahead, her hand held stiffly in his.

The pair of them, the Prince in his dark formal trousers and white shirt, his black polished shoes, the woman naked, had the air of some corrupt painting.

'Do it.' The tall man's muffled voice was now louder as if he had gained confidence. 'Do it quickly.' Then the short man produced from some inner pocket a copy of the day's paper — it happened to be the
Daily Exclusive.
Ferdel's expression changed for a moment when he saw it and he glanced involuntarily in
Mirabella's direction. The short man stuck the
Daily Exclusive
into Mirabella's left hand. Her instinctive gesture to hide herself, with the paper, was it seemed what was wanted. 'Across your body.'

Mirabella began to tremble slightly; the paper quivered. While it was still quivering, the short man backed away from the pair of them, and producing what was only too clearly a camera, began to snap quickly, efficiently, fast, with a series of flashes. It was over almost before it began;
beyond a series of blinks, Ferde
l moved not at all. Mirabella continued to tremble.

'Right. We quit.' The tall man gestured to the little photographer to precede him out of the door. The last thing he did in the room itself was to scatter a series of white and red papers like benisons behind him. Taplow gave a kind of groan as the pressure on his neck was released. Finally the tall man backed out preparatory to shutting the heavy doors behind them both. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock.

The three of them, Taplow, Mirabella and the Prince, were left in the grand room which Mirabella had described only recently -but how long ago it seemed - as
'tres homme.'
Taplow was now audibly groaning, almost sobbing.

Then Mirabella began to scream: the sound of her screams echoed rather horribly in the high-ceilinged room.

‘I
t's all your fault, all your fault. You should 'ave loved me,' she cried. 'All you wanted was to...' A vivid scream of words, verbs, all meaning roughly the same thing, of which 'screw' and 'stuff' were the mildest, followed. Hysterically, without bothering to clothe herself, kicking aside a heap which included in fact the Prince's jacket, Mirabella began to pummel his chest with her fists.

Ferdel caught her hands in his. 'Stop that,' he said, 'Put your clothes on at once. And this time I mean what I say.'

‘I
t was you,' began Mirabella again. But the Prince merely transferred both her wrists to one hand and slapped her fa
ce hard. Now the noise of Mirabe
lla's sobs joined the sucking and groaning noise of Taplow on the floor.

'Get up,' said Ferdel curtly. The big man rose lum
be
ringly to
his knees, and then, panting, to his feet.

'Your Highness,' he began, as Mirabella, crying more quietly, arranged herself in her clothes, long black hair tangling with the black glinting dress, sobs gradually diminishing.

'Where's that bloody detective?' Ferdel, having reassumed his jacket, was fastening his tie, stretching his neck as he gazed at himself in the huge gilt-framed Chippendale mirror over the fireplace. 'What are these people for?' Ferdel's English was generally impeccable, the product of English schooldays; nevertheless his words suggested a European aristocrat speaking of peasants.

'Your Highness, we must ring the police -' began Taplow.

'First of all we must get out of here. Where is she? The woman. Your wife.'

'She went out shopping. She said.'

'And the detective?'

'He's coming back this evening. When you go to the Embassy dinner, sir.'

'I shall speak to him. How did this happen? It's - it's monstrous. This Press of yours. How can the government let them do it?'

'I'm so sorry, Your Highness,' wailed Taplow.

'It was not the Press,' said Mirabella in a sulky voice. 'Not how you mean it.' She was standing parallel with Ferdel, but at a distance, sharing the wide mirror to repair her make-up. Like Ferdel adjusting his tie, she made her own series of little
moues
into the mirror as she patted her high cheekbones with a series of dark and light powders.

Ferdel swung round and looked at her.

'Ah. So they are friends of yours. These charming people. Your idea. I thought you were not capable of that. I was wrong.'

'They lo-o-ve animals. That is nice.' Mirabella's lip trembled.

'They love animals! They
are
animals.' Ferdel started to stride up and down the room while Taplow, no longer shuddering, gaped at him. Suddenly the Prince stopped, whirled round and headed for Mirabella again. His expression was momentarily so fierce that the woman, wobbling slightly on her high heels, collapsed into one of the large leather chairs. From this lowly position, Mirabella's enormous eyes brimmed with tears. She looked a great deal more submissive than at any other point during her interview with the Prince.

'What happens now? What happens to the pictures? The filthy
pictures? Do we see them in the filthy Press?'

'Oh Ferdel, you are so cross, it's -ridiculous.' Mirabella attempted a light laugh.

'And you are not cross? Then I shall give you something to be cross about.' In response the Prince dived at her wrist and wrenched quite cruelly the jewelled bracelet fastened with the puma's head. He bent it violently; it snapped. He hurled it down into the fireplace where the pieces lay sadly glittering.

Mirabella gasped. After that she remained rigid. Taplow by now had resumed the impassive expression of the perfect butler, one whom nothing more could faze - not more naked female visitants, not more photographers, not more valuable jewellery broken and cast aside.

Ferdel turned back to Mirabella and eyed her speculatively. His gaze swept from her earrings, pendant and sparkling, to her many rings and the bracelets, less beautiful but possibly equally fragile, on her other arm.

'So. One more dead animal. Now you will tell me about this "feelthy" plot. At once.'