Private Princess

Chapter 87

Compared to the modern behemoths that arched toward the sky, the Tower of London seemed hardly fitting of its name. More a collection of buildings, walls and ramparts than a singular tower, its tallest point stood at twenty-seven meters. By contrast, the Shard, on the opposite bank of the river, climbed to three hundred and ten. Even the neighboring apartments dwarfed the building in height, but scale was only half the story, and what the Tower lacked in vertical bombast, it more than made up for in history and sheer regal majesty. Heavy black gates sat daunting in the stone walls. Flags flew proudly above the lit-up towers and ramparts, snapping in the wind as if to attention.

Morgan stepped out of the cab — the third he had taken, anxious to avoid being followed — and took in the building that sat with gravitas alongside the Thames, the river itself spanned by the grand vision of Tower Bridge, lit-up cables hanging between its iconic twin towers. Jack Morgan had visited the place before as a tourist, and such history reminded him of how small was his own place in the world, and the events of man. The oldest parts of the building were almost a thousand years old, and within the walls, enemies of the state had awaited judgment and been delivered to death. Beneath the beauty was a nation’s past soaked in treason, blood and violence. Morgan could not help but wonder if De Villiers had asked to meet him here for just that reason.

The chance to ask him arrived as the Colonel removed himself from the shadows.

“Why here?” Morgan asked.

“It’s secure,” De Villiers replied. “Police. Soldiers. These walls? You won’t find a safer place in London. You found what you were looking for?”

Morgan evaded a direct answer. “I don’t have anything on me,” he told the man, having hidden the weapons between cabs.

“Good.” De Villiers turned and led Morgan toward a door that was set in the stone beside one of the imposing gates and flanked by armed guards, who stood to attention at the approach of the Colonel, clad in civilian attire though he was.

The cold stone tunnel was ten feet deep, and as Morgan emerged at De Villiers’ back, he saw that much of the interior was cast into darkness.

But there were voices in the night.

“Stop for a moment,” said the Colonel, his voice calm.

“What is it?” Morgan asked quietly.

“Just be quiet.”

Then, clear as day, Morgan heard a young voice cry out into the night. It was a confident voice. The voice of a soldier.

“Halt!” he demanded. “Who comes there?”

A second voice answered, rich with years. Following the sound, Morgan saw the uniform of a Yeoman Warder — a Beefeater. “The keys!” he replied.

“Whose keys?” the young sentry questioned.

“Queen Elizabeth’s keys!”

“Pass then!” the soldier allowed. “All’s well!”

And Morgan watched silently as the Yeoman, under escort of bayonet-toting soldiers, their silhouettes made long by tall bearskin hats, marched by the young sentry and out of sight.

At that moment, Morgan realized he’d been holding his breath, and let it go silently. He could not explain why he had done so. Only that he knew he was watching something ancient, archaic and special. A moment that was timeless. A throwback to past days.

“What was that?” he asked De Villiers, as the tramp of the men’s boots faded into the darkness.

“The Ceremony of the Keys,” the man explained. “They’re locking up the Tower.”

“They do this every night?”

“For centuries,” De Villiers confirmed. “The only thing that changes is the monarch’s name. You’re very lucky to have seen it. Very few do.”

The majesty of the moment had not been lost on Morgan, and he nodded, but the movement was cursory. A punctuation at the end of one conversation, and the beginning of the next. He had come to the Tower for a reason that was not one of ceremony.

“Something’s been troubling me,” Morgan admitted to the Colonel. He didn’t need to say that it was something other than the death of Jane, which burned through his soul with more torturous intent than any of the contraptions that had been used to bring misery to the Tower’s former occupants, and traitors.

“What is it?” De Villiers asked.

“The shooters knew my hotel in Brecon. They knew where to find us at the waterfall. It’s fair to say by now that those gunmen were Flex and an associate. Maybe more than one.”

“Are you saying you think Flex had inside help?”

“I know he did.”

“And do you know from whom?”

“At first I thought it was Lewis, but I know now that’s not possible.”

“Then who?”

“The Princess told me you have SAS troopers on the security detail?”

De Villiers nodded. “Of course. They’re the best of the best.”

“They’re also people who are loyal to Flex, he being one of their own.”

“I don’t like where you’re going with this, Morgan.”

“But hear me out anyway. I’d like you to look into the service records of the SAS men on the Princess’s detail, to see if any served alongside Flex.”

“They’re all younger men on this detail, much younger than Flex. He has been out of the regiment for a while now. I doubt it’s possible.”

“But we need to consider it.”

His business at an end, Morgan gave De Villiers the number that he could now be reached on.

“But we’re not done yet,” the Colonel said suddenly, surprising him.

“We’re not?”

“No, Morgan. There’s a reason I wanted you to come to the Tower, and I’m afraid you can’t leave without knowing it. Follow me.”

Morgan allowed himself to be led by De Villiers into the heart of the Tower, emerging in a courtyard that was lined with small terraced houses older than the American’s home nation.

“Who lives here?” Morgan asked.

“The Beefeaters,” the Colonel answered.

“They’re trusted to live inside the Tower?”

“More than trusted. They’re the soul of the place, every one of them a former warrant officer with twenty-two years’ service or more. They come from the army, air force and navy, each of them as dedicated and patriotic a person as you’ll find.”

Morgan listened, interested to find out where De Villiers’ speech was heading.

“Many of them joined the military at sixteen,” De Villiers added. “And they’ll serve until they retire. Duty to their country is all, to them.”

“And duty to the Crown?”

“You’ll not find a Beefeater who doesn’t see them as one and the same. After you, Morgan.” The Colonel unlocked a door and stepped aside so that the American could walk in first.

He did, and came face to face with a man holding a gun.