Warlord

THIRTY-FIVE

SMITH SAT STOCK-STILL IN THE SEMI-GLOOM, transfixed by the flickering black-and-white image of the famous woman on the monitor. It had been years since his triumph at Windsor Castle. Oh, he'd had some minor opportunities to plunge yet another stake into the Royal heart of Britain, and he had even taken advantage of a few.

But tonight?

Tonight would be the result of patience and incredibly meticulous planning. And it would be cataclysmic, a world-shaking event that would rock the Royal Family back on its heels like nothing he'd done since Mountbatten's murder. It would shake them, and their bloody nation, to the very foundation.

And, best of all, it would be the perfect opening act leading to his grand finale. His final day of reckoning with his implacable enemy. The epic culmination of his life's work, the realization of his childhood dreams of total vengeance. The penultimate penalty to be paid.

An eye for an eye.

He saw that she was just finished dressing, suitably chic for a late-night Paris rendezvous. Now, leaning into the gilt mirror above the bureau, applying her lipstick, she smacked her lips together a few times and essayed a smile. Happy with the result, she picked up a crystal flute of champagne.

Eyes shining, she raised the glass to herself.

She had not looked better than at this moment, he thought, not in years. But that pained, haunted look he'd seen in her eyes during the bad times remained. She looked like what she was, a woman on the run, in search of peace.

Four flatscreens stood atop his room's faux Louis XIV desk, bathing the tiny bedroom in cool, phosphorescent blue. An hour earlier, he had tapped into the hotel's CCTV security camera system: three of his monitors were broadcasting alternating live feeds directly from various areas inside the building. The hotel's front and rear entrances, the guest and service elevators, the employee entrance, and the foyer directly outside the white and gold double doors of the hotel owner's suite on the floor above.

It was not called the Imperial Suite for nothing. An exact replica of Louis XIV's rooms at Versailles, it was the single-most expensive hotel room in all of Paris.

This fourth screen had a real-time feed, but the feed emanated from inside the doors of the Imperial Suite. He could toggle views from either of two hidden cameras. His engineer had done well. One downward-view camera inside the ceiling-mounted living room fire sensor, the other a rotating lens, swiveling 360 degrees inside a lightbulb in the master bedroom's chandelier. Images from the opulent bedroom now captured his rapturous attention.

He wore a headset with a lip mike so he could communicate quietly and instantly with a colleague currently waiting in the Place Vendome outside the ridiculously expensive hotel.

"Any time now," Smith said softly into the mike. "She just finished dressing."

"That's too bad. How much longer?" the man on the motorcycle said. "The natives are getting restless out here."

"Ten, fifteen minutes maximum. I see Dodi's cars are already waiting outside the hotel's front entrance."

"Just arrived. His black Range Rover HSE and his father's black hotel Mercedes."

"That could change. Keep your eyes open."

"Say the word, sir."

"Stand by."

The voyeur returned his attention to matters at hand. He had to smile at his all too predictable reaction to the partially dressed woman on the screen: damp brow, pulsing heart, the hint of an erection announcing itself.

Highly trained in the key indicators of human behavior, he should have expected his own involuntary reactions to the subject, of course. She'd always had this effect on him. She had this effect on everyone; the whole damn world was at her feet, so why should he be exempt from her charms? Still, such feelings were a bit disconcerting at this moment in time, all things considered.

The woman, still a fresh-scrubbed, dewy-eyed beauty at thirty-six, was sporting a healthy tan from a week's yachting off Sardinia. She stood peering at her body in the gilt mirror over the bureau. Satisfied, she slipped her slim tanned arms inside a short black frock coat. Smoothing it down over hips hugged by tight white Versace jeans, she leaned again into the mirror inspecting her makeup, puckering her lips, a new string of pearls swinging from her neck-

Smith slid the zoom button forward, going in for a tight close-up of that famous face.

Her face aglow after two or three glasses of champagne in the beautiful Ritz Hotel suite with her new lover, the princess looked like a woman who had found a momentary escape from the wreckage of her life. She looked like a survivor, wearied by the fray but determined to find a way out of her well-publicized maze of constant sorrow. An exit from all that, a port in the storm, that's how she saw her newest lover.

This new man provided that and more. And, in a fortuitous twist of fate, she'd managed to insert a razor-sharp political dagger into the hearts of those who had caused her enormous suffering. She could only imagine their horror at the notion of a divorced Egyptian playboy as the stepfather of the future King of England. How utterly delicious, even though it would never happen.

Smith had seen her many moods, of course, both in the flesh and in the media. But tonight he thought she looked extraordinarily relaxed and beautiful. Was it real? he wondered, or just that highly developed art of seduction she'd practiced so assiduously, made manifest?

Enter the lover. Smith blinked and leaned forward. He found himself gazing curiously at the rather callow male who now entered the frame with an unattractive swagger. The arriviste had acquired the aura of worldwide fame now, but it was only the reflected glory of the shining princess that afforded him this paltry notoriety.

Her lover came up from behind her, placed his hands on her waist, and nuzzled her neck, kissing her ear, staring at the reflection of the two of them in the mirror.

"Happy, my darling?" he purred.

"I miss the boys. But yes."

"I got along with them quite well, didn't you think?"

She leaned in again to apply more lip gloss. "Wills will be King of England one day. Poor thing. All those dodgy relatives kissing his royal arse."

The divorced Egyptian playboy laughed at the exquisite irony of it all. Since he'd met this fabulous woman his life had suddenly, miraculously, taken a serious turn for the better. Imagine. Stepfather to the King of England. That would show the old man what kind of son he had.

His father owned this hotel. The most famous and expensive hotel in the world. He had stolen it from some Saudi prince whom he well knew never bothered to read the fine print. The Ritz Paris was one more jewel in his father's crown, one that included Harrods department store in London, among other priceless treasures.

His father had suffered, however. He was a man who had, to his eternal chagrin, tried to buy his way into London society without success. Expecting a knighthood, instead he had been shunned and humiliated by British Royals and aristocrats for years. But now, finally, he stood at the brink of miraculous revenge.

His son was about to wed the mother of the future King of England.

Dodi could almost hear Papa licking his chops somewhere off-stage, flipping through Hello magazine, page after page of his son and the Princess frolicking on the glamorous Riviera. Revenge, on a platter. A dish best savored slowly. Perhaps now his father would take him a bit more seriously. Perhaps even now the tables were turning in favor of the son. Certainly the limelight was his and his alone and he gloried in its glow.

"I have a little something for you tonight, you know," Dodi said, nuzzling her neck.

"Hmm. Not something that comes in a small black velvet box, one hopes?"

"It might just," he said, ignoring the small gibe. Was she teasing him? Leading him on? He could never tell with women, especially this one. After all his dead-end romances, here was a woman who defined "high maintenance." But, God, she was worth it. When first he'd set his sights on her, he'd felt adrift, never knowing what to say or how to react to anything she said or did. But it was different now.

Now he was beginning in his small way to understand his much wiser father's counsel during this courtship, his father's perception of what made her tick: Listen, my son. Her thoughts travel no straight rational line, he had said. She has an active but reckless and whimsical mind that rushes to sudden violent conclusions; a mind that is touched by a certain kind of brilliance, but a brilliance that zigzagged as haphazardly and uselessly as lightning.

He had not understood at the time of the lesson. Now, as he was beginning to see, he felt his confidence growing.

She pulled away from him, picking up her handbag and giving him that shy smile from beneath her lashes. "No baubles now. Perhaps later. At your apartment. I want to get out of here. Away from all these horrible people."

He said nothing, just quietly grasped the small velvet box in the pocket of his leather jacket. A half hour earlier, he'd crossed the Place Vendome to see his friend the famous jeweler, Alberto Repossi. Alberto had a star-shaped ring with five diamonds for sale, a quarter of a million dollars. It was from the Dis-Moi Oui collection: "Tell me yes."

Dodi bought it on the spot, knowing his father would gladly pick up the tab.

ON THE SCREEN, SMITH COULD see that the false knight in his faux shining armor was clearly agitated. His cell phone chimed, and he turned away from the Princess, scowling angrily. He began pacing back and forth rapidly, a hungry tiger in a gilded cage. He had his mobile pressed tight to his ear, and he was berating one or the other of his two personal bodyguards, Trevor and Kez. He was speaking in a whisper, but the powerful microphone above his head picked up every word.

Grabbing his champagne glass, Dodi now moved over to the nearest bedroom window, peering down into the twinkling darkness of the Place Vendome, angrily shaking his head at the snarling packs of paparazzi, waiting like hungry wolves for a bit of fresh meat.

Smith leaned forward, eyes on the monitor, adjusting the volume in his earphones, concentrating on the young man's every word. This operatic fantasy was unfolding rapidly now, and it had all the elements of high drama. The fat lady was finally stepping out of the shadows, ready to sing for the lovely swan peering once more into her beloved mirror.

"Listen up, Trevor," Dodi said angrily to his primary bodyguard. "I don't give a good fucking damn about your security protocols right now, right? We're out of here and Henri's driving. Okay? Back to my apartment in the Rue Arsene Houssaye, understand me? It's a bloody madhouse out front. A hundred paparazzi and tourists at least! I'm looking at this bedlam right now, for God's sake, and I'm not putting the Princess through it again. We'll use the caravan already out front as decoys. Call Henri immediately and lay on another Mercedes at the rear. Tell Ritz Security I want a car down there now! Rue Cambon entrance, tout de suite!"

He listened a few moments more, made a disgusted face at the phone, and said, "My father has already approved this move, so don't give me any more of your shit. If either you or Kez want to ride up front with Henri, fine. But one of you only, understand me? And no second car following us. It's only a mile and a half to my bloody apartment, for God's sake. It is not a problem. Got it? Good."

Dodi slammed the phone off on his thigh and dropped it into a pocket of his suede jacket. Catching Diana's eye in the mirror, he smiled easily at her and said, "All taken care of, darling. Whenever you're ready."

"Two seconds," Diana said.

He raised the glass of wine to her and downed it in a single draught. Pulling the bottle of vintage Roederer Cristal from the silver ice bucket, he saw that it was empty. Time for another? No. It was getting late. There was chilled white wine and caviar waiting for them at his apartment. Time to go.

Dodi turned back to the window and smiled at the thought of how this magical evening would end. They'd had a wonderful few days together aboard his father's yacht, Jonikal, cruising off the French and Italian Riviera. Diana seemed truly happy now, despite the fact that Trevor and Kez had made a dog's breakfast of their earlier arrival at the Ritz. Cameras jammed in her face, besieged by rude questions, Diana had fled inside the hotel in tears.

And she'd clearly been unimpressed with the Villa Windsor. A lovely mansion in Paris, formerly the home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, a house his father had strongly hinted would be his, should he and Diana wed. For the first time in his life, Dodi sensed his powerful father's approval at the direction his life was taking.

You, my handsome son, will be stepfather to the two heirs to the throne of England…then we shall reign.

Those were the exact words his father had whispered to him as they had stood at the stern rail of the yacht Jonikal, watching Diana and her two sons speeding around and around the yacht on Kawasaki wave riders.

Dodi patted his pocket. He wanted to give her the ring tonight. But she was right. Not here in this hotel suite owned like everything else by his father, but in the private luxury of his own Paris apartment. He was his own man now, or would be soon, anyway.

Smith saw Dodi look at his watch and then looked at his own.

It was exactly 11:37 p.m.