Code Name: Tiara by Sawyer Bennett
CHAPTER 5
Jackson
“Iexpected a bigger jet,” I mutter as I pull my suitcase out of the Bentley’s trunk. Like a 747, given the family’s wealth.
Not that the Bombardier Global 7500 is by any means a small plane. It has the capacity to seat fourteen and can fly up to sixteen hours, long enough to get us through the first ten-hour leg to Dubai. There we will refuel and pick up a new set of Bretarian pilots who already traveled ahead of time. Then it’s another nine hours to London.
I watch as Camille ascends the steps and disappears inside the aircraft. She’s totally ignored me since sliding into the car this morning for the short drive to the private airport. She looks like she’s ready to summer in the Greek Isles as she’s dressed in a pair of skinny white jeans, a navy-and-white horizontally striped shirt, and a pair of white tennis shoes. Her large, white tote bag is casually slung over a shoulder, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. She’s got on oversized sunglasses and her hair is in a messy bun.
Looking at her, minus the $50 million plane she’s boarding, she almost looks… normal.
For the last two days, I’ve barely seen her, and when I have in passing, we’ve ignored each other. Ladd, Cruce, and Dozer went back to the States the day before yesterday to begin final preparations for the princess’s arrival. I stayed behind, as planned, to accompany her to London for her cousin’s wedding, and over the past few days, I’ve worked with Dmitri and the Bretarian security forces that will be making the extended trip to the States, including the man beside me, who’s going with us on the plane as Dmitri’s right-hand man.
Paul Regis has been in the king’s employ under Dmitri for the past four years. Even though there are men and women who have worked in security longer, Dmitri said Paul is his most trusted and the man he’s chosen to be my second to protect the princess. He’s former French Foreign Legion, and his specialty is hand-to-hand combat. Dmitri wanted him with me as my second in case an attempt is made on Camille. If she’s going to be snatched away from us, it will entail face-to-face, close combat to protect her.
“The princess had her pick of jets, but she chose something much smaller than the king’s, which is a 747.” I look over in surprise at Paul as he pulls his suitcase out of the trunk and shuts it. He gives a slight knock on the back, indicating to the driver it’s okay to leave. As the Bentley glides away, Paul and I turn for the jet.
“You mean to tell me the multibillionaire princess could have her pick of private planes, and she chose what would be considered a relatively dinky one?”
“She’s never been one for excess,” Paul says simply as he shrugs, but quite liltingly given his French accent. As if it’s a known fact to everyone in the world that she might be different from your standard royal.
I might have been getting an inkling the last few days, although my observations have been limited. While I’ve had almost zero interaction with her since escorting her home from the charity gala, I’ve seen her on a handful of occasions with her family. When in residence and not attending formal events with visitors or outside the palace walls, I’ve found King Thomas, Queen Juliana, and Princess Camille to be casual, laid-back people.
Camille tends to run around in these hot summer months in frayed shorts and T-shirts, and the only jewelry I ever spot her wearing are tiny gold hoops in her ears. While the king is not as informal, he doesn’t wear expensive suits, even when attending to business matters. Usually he’ll be in a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt that, while casual, I’m sure still cost an arm and a leg. The queen is equally casual in her clothing, although she favors sundresses and a bit more jewelry. The king and queen, in the interactions I’ve had with them, have been extremely gracious, open, and surprisingly humorous. I’ve even been invited to join them for evening meals as I’m a guest in their home, but I’ve declined, citing the need to continue working with Dmitri and his crew to iron out the minute details in our plans.
This isn’t necessarily true. We’ve been working our asses off and have it all down. It’s just that I have no desire to make personal connections with my clients. That doesn’t come from any place of ego, and I’m not a closed-off asshole. On the contrary, I’m as outgoing and good-natured as they come, when I’m around friends and family. But it’s easier to do my job if there’s a buffer between me and the people I serve, so I keep things cool and detached. It keeps me laser-focused on my job and makes me not just good but great at what I do.
I learned that icy detachment in the SEALs, and it’s a form of training that will stick with me until the end of my days.
I follow Paul up into the jet and look around in appreciation at the craftsmanship. The entry is a galley similar to what you’d see on a commercial plane, sitting between the cockpit and the main cabin. This galley, though, is all stainless steel and custom wood cabinetry and lighting. The floors are covered with thick, expensive carpeting, except the aisle that leads through the cabin, which is gleaming parquet.
Immediately to the right as you enter the main cabin are chairs and tables in varying sizes on each side of the aisle, four of which recline fully for sleep. Past that is a private entertainment suite with couches and a wet bar, as well as a bathroom complete with shower. Even farther back is a private bedroom with a full-size closet. I checked out the plane yesterday to familiarize myself with it, since we’ll be using it during all our travels.
Paul and I are welcomed by one of two flight attendants, and our baggage is swept from our hands and stowed in a closet. Two pilots do their preflight in the cockpit, and they look over their shoulders at us as we enter, nodding politely. I had a meeting with them yesterday as well, and they are one of two sets of pilots who fly the princess’s jet.
Camille is in the first seat to the left, which rests up against the galley wall. I move past, turn, and catch her attention. When she lifts her eyes to mine, I do nothing more than motion for her to stand. She blinks in surprise but obliges without hesitation.
I nod toward the back of the plane. “When you board your aircraft, always sit in the last row of seats until we take off.”
Camille frowns and asks, “Are you expecting somebody to storm the entrance and grab me?”
I stare back at her, my lack of response indicating that is exactly what I’m paid to expect.
“Oh,” she says in a soft voice of understanding. She stands and moves past to the back of the cabin without complaint.
It’s clear to me that either Dmitri has become lax in his guard of her or perhaps he’s just not as good at what he does as we are. Jameson has always made it protocol to move our wards away from any doors on private transport until we are underway.
Paul looks slightly surprised but nods in understanding, and I can see respect in his eyes. He knows that while the Bretaria airport is well secured, it is not without chinks in its armor. An inside man could very easily allow a handful of people into the perimeter, and they could storm the jet with automatic weapons to force relinquishment of the princess from our control. If that were to happen today, for example, Paul and I would be the first line of defense, meeting them right at the door.
Paul stations himself at the top of the stairs, looking down on the tarmac. His hands are folded before him and he appears casual, but he carefully scans the area while the pilots finish up their preflight checklist.
I see that Camille has taken a seat facing me. I watch as she inserts her earbuds and turns on music or perhaps an audio book. She leans back, head to the cushioned seat, and closes her eyes.
I’d really expected arguments when I asked her to move, mainly because I gave it as a command not to be questioned. Since her blowup at the amphitheater where she as much as told me she’s the boss and I have no right to tell her what to do, I’ve been expecting her to argue at every turn. The fact she didn’t just now is disconcerting, making me keep my guard up with her even more.
We’re in the air before long, and Camille still has her eyes closed, so I leave her alone. Paul and I take a pair of facing club chairs with a square table between us. We’re close enough that we don’t have to raise our voices to talk as we discuss our personal experiences in London. I’ve been there quite a few times, but the city is just too vast and populated for me to know my way around. Paul is the same. He has traveled as much as I have, but neither of us has ever stayed long enough in a place to gain an insider’s knowledge. It’s why part of Camille’s security team in London will be two men who were born and raised in the city.
Regardless, the trip for the cousin’s wedding should be uneventful. We’ll be staying at the hotel where the reception will be held, and it’s going to be a relatively simple protection job. There will be travel to and from the church, and Camille wants to visit a few things while there, but nothing that will cause any major safety concerns.
One thing of interest I learned about Camille is that this cousin and bride-to-be—Rachel—is a very, very distant relation from a branch of the family who left Bretaria over a hundred years ago. They moved to Great Britain and have lived there ever since. Rachel is something like a fourth cousin, three times removed, or some shit like that, but they barely share blood. Camille is attending the wedding because the girls went to the same Zurich university and became very close while there, reconnecting the two sides of the family.
The reason this is interesting—the Winterbourne family of Bretaria have become almost isolated from the various branches of the family who’ve moved off the island. There are no royal houses stocked with blue bloods in Bretaria. The founding charter doesn’t even confer titles upon those who are in line to inherit because the actual monarchy is not the most essential function of the family.
Yes, the throne works in conjunction with a governor and small parliament to rule over the island and its outliers, but the majority of the king’s responsibility is in the business of mining rubies. As such, ascendancy to the throne isn’t an overly formal thing; it’s not as important to the citizens of Bretaria as it is to the people of the UK who revere and almost worship their royals.
There has never been major fighting over the throne since the entire family, no matter how distant, shares in the wealth generated by the mines. There’s not a member of the extended Winterbourne family who doesn’t live in high style because of the rubies. This fortune has assured a peaceful reign for every monarch who has ever presided over the Bretarian Islands.
It doesn’t mean King Thomas is completely safe, however, as evidenced by the chatter Interpol picked up. While the king spreads his wealth among those with shared blood, it doesn’t mean there’s not someone out there who wants more. Dmitri made a wise decision to stay by the king’s side and trust Camille’s care to others. An assassination of the king would be far more detrimental to the city-state than a kidnapping of the princess, which would ultimately result in money being handed over for her safe return.
Of course, if someone really wanted a direct line to the throne and got too close to Camille’s twenty-fifth birthday when she has the right to ascend upon her father’s death, she could be at the same risk of assassination. The goal right now is for the global security agencies to share information and try to figure out exactly who is planning an attempt on King Thomas’s life, and take them down, thereby ensuring his safety and the throne’s legacy.
It’s another reason Dmitri is staying behind so that he can monitor the investigation with the other outside agencies. It wouldn’t surprise me if he pulls on former KGB contacts for information as well.
“What did you do before joining Jameson?” Paul asks as he removes his seat belt and settles deeper into his chair. We’ve been so busy planning we haven’t taken the time to get to know one another.
“Navy. Third generation.”
He nods, a knowing smile. “SEALs, I’m guessing.”
“Yeah, although my dad and grandfather were both captains at retirement. They liked to drive the boats that carried people like me around.”
“What did they captain?” he asks.
“My grandfather an aircraft carrier, and my dad a destroyer.”
Paul whistles through his teeth in respect. In his late thirties, Paul has had plenty of experience with military operations given his background in the French Foreign Legion. He most likely has done training ops with our military.
He appraises me before saying, “You obviously chose not to make a career in the navy, but I’m guessing as third generation, you failed someone’s expectations.”
Savvy man.
I give a mirthless nod. “My grandfather died before I left the navy, but my dad isn’t overly happy that I didn’t reenlist. My brother is still in, and he’ll be the golden child for choosing to carry on our family’s service to our country, an obligation I don’t quite understand. I fought and bled for this country, and I saved lives during my enlistment. I’m satisfied with what I accomplished and the reasons why I left.”
Paul nods sagely. “Money and control.”
“Bingo,” I agree with a laugh. “And I’m okay with that.”
“As you should be. Doesn’t mean that what we do isn’t worthwhile.”
Exactly.
I firmly believe that my work with Jameson in its totality is honorable and has immense value to the people we help.
Just wish my dad saw it the same way.