That vaunted name stopped what was left of Albert’s tears. He sat upright again. Exhaustion had broken Albert’s mantle, and he felt ashamed for it happening in front of a stranger, a dignitary he was meant to impress. The governor recognized this.
“Do not be embarrassed. We are all just men. This little chat is between you and me. You have my word as a gentleman.”
“Thank you,” Albert sputtered, chugging the last of his whiskey. “I think I will turn in”
“This way, Your Royal Highness,” the governor gestured to an old staircase.
“Albert, Governor. You may call me Albert. After all, we are all just men,” he said with a forced sleepy smile. Filled with respect for the young Prince, the governor watched Albert shamble up the old creaking stairs. He signaled the butler to follow.
Albert’s upper floor bedroom awaited, cozy and warm. Modest in décor, it had a wood-fired stove that radiated heat and a soft glow. As the butler retreated, Albert slid under the soft bed’s thick duvet. Swaddled in comfort, he peered out a small window to the black sea. On the horizon was the flicker of a ship’s deck lights. With his head sinking into the soft, cool pillow, Albert surmised that the lights likely belonged to a cruise ship filled with eco-tourists returning from the Southern Ocean. He fell asleep.
4: WAYLAY
“We're surrounded. That simplifies the problem.”
The rotor blades of the Apache thumped and turned slowly. The helicopter floated along the meadow. Its belly brushed tall, swaying grass. Ahead were the thatched roofs of simple houses. Horses scattered and ran away over the hills.
Albert was at the machine’s control. Relaxed, he looked up through the cockpit glass at the bright stars of the clear night, then down to his co-pilot’s helmet. The man in front of him never seemed to answer any questions. One of the house doors opened. Light spilled out into the dark night, and, one by one, children emerged and lined up against the brick wall.
The helicopter’s cannon rattled and flashed. The children fell in exaggerated spinning deaths. Albert screamed. The co-pilot turned, and, beneath black empty eye sockets, a skeletal jaw hinged open in a mocking silent shriek. Albert screamed again.
“Your Royal Highness. You were screaming.” Government House’s butler stood in the door frame. His face, shadowed by hall light, betrayed his concern. Albert was drenched in sweat. Major Fagan, now in his fatigues and a beige beret that covered his salt and pepper hair, peeked around the corner. Albert recognized the SAS’s cap badge. It was Excalibur. The longsword was pointed down, wreathed in flames, and worked into the cloth of a Crusader shield. Beneath was the motto, ‘Who Dares Wins.’
“You all right, then, Captain?” Fagan asked with his thick Yorkshire accent
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Albert answered. “Thank you.”
“Very well, sir.”
The butler said he would fetch a glass of water, and he shut the door. The room was swallowed by darkness again.
Suddenly, came muffled thumping, and Albert had to ask himself if he was really awake. Then, hurried footfalls in the hall. Albert swung his legs out of bed. His bare feet hit the cold floor and confirmed he was in fact awake. He clicked the nightstand light on. The muffled thumps became the crackle of gunfire. Albert looked out the window and saw flashes on the mansion’s lawn.
“Captain Talbot.” The chamber’s door was thrown open again. Fagan leaned in, pistol in hand. “Come quickly.” Still fogged by alcohol, jet lag, and sleep, Albert sat slumped at the edge of his bed. “Now, sir.”
The order blasted away the last of the fog in Albert’s mind. He complied and moved toward the voice. Seeing he was only dressed in pajamas, Fagan threw a Kevlar vest at Albert.
“Put this on and follow me.”
Crouched, Albert and Fagan moved along the House’s upper hall. A grenade exploded downstairs. The mansion shook. The blast was answered by a string of automatic gunfire and shouts. Someone was coming up the stairs, too. Major Fagan knelt and raised his SIG Sauer handgun.
“Don’t shoot,” a voice said. It was Governor Moody and he had an Uzi submachine gun in hand. “Albert, are you all right?”
“So far,” Albert answered as he looked over his pajamas and body armor. “What’s happening?”
“I’m not certain. The security detail and the mansion guard have failed to answer their radios. Someone yelling orders in Spanish tried to get inside the House.”
There was a flash and explosion outside. The three men flinched and dropped down.
“We have to get the Prince from here,” the governor insisted to Major Fagan. To my office,” the governor insisted.
The three men headed down a narrow set of stairs.
The butler was dead. He lay there at the bottom riser, a shattered glass of water at his side. Albert, Fagan, and the governor stepped over him. Out of respect, each was careful not to contact the corpse. They entered the kitchen.
The simple kitchen held baskets of vegetables, trays of eggs, and, hanging from an iron rack above the hearth, well-used pots and pans. Beside the wood chopping block lay a dead footman. Albert, the governor, and Fagan turned for the lower hall.
They passed a dead dark-haired man folded over a chair. The corpse’s uniform was blood-stained and full of holes made by the governor’s Uzi. Major Fagan grabbed a handful of hair and rolled the stiffening body off the chair’s back. Even though there was no recognizable insignia on the uniform, Fagan declared him an ‘Argie.’
Numb and seemingly indifferent to the mayhem, the governor said: “My office is that way.” He pointed in the direction of a set of double doors with the barrel of his Uzi. The three moved that way and came upon a hall cabinet.
“One moment,” the governor said. They all paused at the piece of furniture. As the governor removed a key from his robe pocket and unlocked the cabinet, Fagan tracked his semi-automatic pistol around, watching for threats. The governor grabbed a shotgun from inside the cabinet and handed it to Albert.
“I trust you know how to use this?”
Albert’s answer was communicated by a check of the 12-gauge’s chamber. Finding it empty, he cycled the shotgun’s forearm and dragged a shell into the chamber.
“Very well,” the governor approved.
The three men moved on through the dark smoke-filled hall. The crackle of intermittent gunfire continued outside.
Heavy bootfalls boomed along the upstairs hall. The three men looked up. The sounds stopped at what was the Prince’s chamber.
“Carry on,” Governor Moody urged. He unlocked and pushed open the door to his office.
The room was empty and undisturbed. A portrait of Captain John McBride hung on the paneled walls, and a large oak desk sat flanked by two tall bookcases that held leather-bound tomes. The governor began clearing books from shelves.
“Lock the door,” the governor ordered and Fagan complied. The governor removed the plank of one shelf and pried off a false back, opening into a cobweb-filled crawlspace. “This will get us to the garage. In you go. Both of you.” There was no arguing with the diplomat-warrior.
Albert moved to enter, but Fagan held him back and went in first. With Albert and the governor behind him, Fagan felt his way in the pitch-black. He swatted at the sticky webs that stuck to his face and shuffled forward, feeling his way along the lath and plaster. Then he saw light that outlined a small door. He kicked it open and squeezed through.