Private Royals (Private 12.50)

‘A female, and cross-checking it against her father’s sample, it’s not Abbie. Have we got a female kidnapper?’

Knight shook his head. ‘I think we’ve got a second hostage.’

CHAPTER 11

JACK MORGAN STOOD alo

ne on the Victoria Embankment of the River Thames. He was beneath the Royal Air Force memorial, the gilded eagle glinting in the sun as the last light of the balmy June evening finally died. The London Eye twinkled on the opposite bank.

‘Mr Morgan.’ Colonel De Villiers greeted him with the minimum courtesy his aristocratic upbringing would allow. ‘I trust you have a good reason to interrupt my preparations for tomorrow’s parade.’

‘The best reason, Colonel,’ Morgan replied, remaining civil for the sake of Abbie. ‘To save lives.’

‘Major Cook said as much on the phone, which is why I’m here.’

‘And I appreciate your time.’

‘I find most Americans to be direct, Mr Morgan. Would you be so good as to tell me what this is about?’

Morgan was happy to oblige, his manner calm. ‘Abbie Winchester has been kidnapped, and will be killed during tomorrow’s parade if a ransom is not paid.’

‘According to whom?’ De Villiers asked, dismissively.

‘Her kidnapper.’

‘Who is?’

‘We’re working on that,’ Morgan answered, holding the Colonel’s disdainful stare.

‘By “we”, I imagine you mean Private, otherwise I would be having this conversation with the police, as would be proper. However, I suppose it is the Duke’s money to throw away as he likes.’

‘Who you are talking to isn’t the important part, Colonel.’ Morgan spoke evenly, restraining the urge to shake the sneer from the man’s empty skull.

De Villiers smiled and looked out over the Thames as he answered, perhaps wishing he could throw the American into its waters. ‘Mr Morgan, I have worked closely with the royal family for the past two years. Abbie Winchester is a drunken slut and an embarrassment. No doubt this whole ploy is some kind of attention-grabbing exercise of hers to get into the tabloids. I shan’t be a party to it.’

‘There was blood at the scene, Colonel,’ Morgan revealed. ‘Enough to suggest the person it came from is dead.’

He expected the revelation to hit home, hard. Instead, De Villiers merely shrugged.

‘Then perhaps she finally pissed off the wrong drug dealer or fucked the wrong brain-dead rock star,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t pretend to know what goes on inside that girl’s head, Mr Morgan, but I do know that it is no concern of mine – the security of the inner circle of the royal family is, and my focus is on tomorrow’s parade. Good evening, Mr Morgan. I have a final planning meeting to attend.’

‘You may want to revisit those plans, Colonel,’ Morgan told him, his patience at an end and his tone hardening.

‘Oh really, Mr Morgan? And why is that?’

Morgan thought of holding back the information, but the life of Abbie Winchester had to come before his dislike of De Villiers, and so he told the officer the reason why. ‘Because the man whose blood it is was from your own ranks.’

CHAPTER 12

REJOINING COOK IN the Range Rover, Morgan instructed the soldier to follow the Thames along its northern bank. ‘Head towards the Tower of London.’

On the way, Cook asked, ‘You think this is all a smokescreen for a heist?’ referring to the precious Crown jewels held within the Tower’s walls.

Morgan shook his head. ‘No, but I like your lateral thinking. We’re going to see an acquaintance of mine. An ex-SAS guy known as Flex. Falklands and Desert Storm vet. You know him?’

‘Those guys stick to themselves.’

As they neared the Tower of London, Morgan told her, ‘Flex runs a private security firm now.’ He pointed Cook in the direction she should drive.