Private Monaco

Chapter 84

Justine stood beside Greg Campbell in a corrugated-steel equipment store built beneath the grandstand. She’d been bustled into the room by the big Secret Service agent who had followed his colleagues. They’d done a magnificent job of clustering to shield Carver and had got him to this secondary location in under a minute.

The atmosphere in the equipment store was tense. The ranking agent in charge coordinated with the extraction team via radio, urging them to make ready. Justine heard an announcement on the public address system in French and English, saying qualifying had stopped pending the resolution of certain technical issues. She wondered how many people who’d been sitting near Carver would know the true meaning of the phrase “technical issues” and whether news of the shooting would spread. Even if it did, members of the public who reported an unconfirmed assassination attempt on social media would likely be dismissed as conspiracy cranks. There would undoubtedly be race footage of Carver being hurried from the stand, but TV companies might not release it, and even if they did, the Secretary’s media team could say the two events were unrelated. The public would only know about the assassination attempt if Carver or the US government wanted them to.

The sour note in the room was the presence of Henry Wilson, who stood in the opposite corner near the door. He didn’t take his eyes off Justine and Greg, and prior to Jack’s call, Justine had been wondering what to do about this man who probably wanted her dead.

She clasped her phone tightly and made for Carver, who seemed bewildered. He sat on a metal equipment chest and caught his breath. His detail bristled as she approached, and a couple of agents stepped toward her.

“Please stay back, ma’am,” one of them said.

“She’s okay,” Greg told his colleagues, but his words didn’t really register because Wilson yelled over him.

“Get this woman out of here! She poses a security risk.”

“Henry?” Carver said.

“I think she’s been working with the people behind all this,” he replied. “The people who just tried to shoot you. She knew about the attack in advance. She caused a distraction when it happened.”

“Me?” Justine said in disbelief. “Why would I warn you about an attack I was a part of?”

“That’s something we’ll have to find out,” Wilson responded.

“You’re the one who’s behind this,” Justine said. “You’ve been helping Roman Verde.”

“I knew she’d do this,” Wilson said with an exasperated sigh. “She’s trying to make the people in this room distrust one another. Which is why she needs to be placed under arrest and taken away from here. She’s the outsider. She doesn’t belong. And she’s dangerous. Get her out!”

Obviously tired of talking, he stepped forward and grabbed Justine’s wrist, which was still sore from being manhandled by Greg. She wasn’t about to allow herself to be assaulted by a man she suspected had betrayed his country and employer, and who had likely played a role in her own abduction and the attempted murder of her and her friends.

She slipped his grasp and slapped him hard.

He staggered back for a moment, but when his shock evaporated, he lunged for her, swinging his fists.

Justine ducked and dodged his wild punches, and Greg stepped in and responded to the attack with a right cross that caught the smaller man on the nose and knocked him on his backside.

“What the hell is happening?” Carver asked.

Henry Wilson wiped his bleeding nose gingerly and tried to stand, but Greg pushed him back down.

“Stay there,” he said, before turning to Justine. “You wanted to look at his arm. Which one?”

“No!” Wilson protested. “You can’t do this.”

“Both,” Justine replied.

He tried to resist as Greg came at him.

“Pete, can you get hold of this guy?” Greg asked, and one of his colleagues stepped forward, squatted and put Wilson into a chokehold.

“It’ll be easier on you if you cooperate,” Greg said. “But you don’t have to be conscious for this.”

Henry Wilson stopped struggling while Greg ripped open his shirt and pulled his jacket off to expose his bare upper arms.

There, tattooed on the inside of Henry’s upper right arm, where the skin was at its softest and most sensitive, was the fleur-de-lys inside the Jerusalem Cross, the mark of Propaganda Tre.