Tiara E-Book

John Reinhard Dizon

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The Princess of Edinburgh has been kidnapped, and peace talks in Northern Ireland are in danger of falling apart. Princess Jennifer's fate attracts the attention of several international organizations, including the IRA, MI6, and the CIA.

While Jennifer finds herself the mistreated prize in an age-old war, no one can expect what happens when the Irish assassin, only known as the Golden Terror, takes an interest in her.

With the future of a nation hanging in the balance, the two cross paths and enter a deadly race against time, and some of the most dangerous men in the world.

Leseprobe

Tiara

John Reinhard Dizon

Copyright (C) 2013 John Reinhard Dizon

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover Design by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Other Books by John Reinhard Dizon

CyclopsDestroyer (Abaddon)GenerationsPenny FlameStxeamtownThe Bat: An Existential FableThe FuryThe StandardWolf ManWolfsangel

Crown of thorns upon my brow

Your tiara my affliction

Its diamonds trickle into my eyes

I've given all carrying your cross

Sacrificed for your noble cause

And now I tire before the night

Blinded by the light

Blinded by your beauty

Just as you've blinded mine

—Princess Jennifer of Edinburgh (2013)

Chapter One

Her mother, Lenore of Scotland, taught her that life was all about choices. Life provided opportunities for everyone, from the rich to the poor, and choices determined one's path in life. Jennifer Mac Manus believed she had a special destiny, a calling to protect and defend the rights of the people of the United Kingdom. As a child she was always the first to volunteer for charity events, the look of joy in the eyes of the unfortunate making the holidays truly special. She chose the happiness of others over the pageantry of the aristocracy, and the humility of the young princess was not overlooked by her people or the world press.

When she entered high school, she became even more involved in humanitarian causes. Poverty, unemployment and women's issues were her main concerns, and she wrote essays and made public appearances whenever possible to promote her agendas. Many of her works were published in newspapers and magazines around the world, and the young scholar was acclaimed by humanitarian groups the world over for her tireless efforts.

Her celebrity was not lost on members of the British monarchy. Prince Conrad of England had become infatuated by the beautiful girl's looks as well as her intelligence and charisma. Though he was nine years her senior, he proposed marriage to her and she readily accepted. She was smitten by the dapper though homely-looking man, knowing that marrying into the Royal Family would be a life-changing event for her. The wedding made headlines around the world, and it appeared to be made in heaven.

Yet the fissures began to appear when the tabloids started rumors that Conrad was still making overtures to his ex-girlfriend, Lady Sarah Hepburn. The Prince vehemently denied it, though his personal life suffered another trauma soon afterward. His great-uncle, Lord Layton, was killed in an Irish Republican Army bombing attack in London. A reporter overheard a grieving Conrad referring to the Irish as 'pigs' at the funeral. It created a scandal that was exacerbated by Lady Hepburn's personal attempts to console the Prince. Jennifer made a public statement disclaiming any animosity towards the Irish by the Royal Family, which was perceived as much as a rebuke to Conrad as a reaction to the controversy surrounding the royal couple. Her efforts to protect and defend her husband was seen as just another of her noble causes.

The Prince's inferiority complex was near-legendary. He tried to make up for his less-than-average looks and his undeserved privilege by establishing a reputation as a ladies' man and dabbling in extreme sports. Though he distanced himself from Lady Hepburn, he was seen with other women at London nightspots and thrilled the media with attempts at hang-gliding and skydiving. It was not long before the unthinkable happened, and Conrad was killed in a speedboat accident that left the Royal Family and the United Kingdom in shock and grief.

Jennifer began devoting her efforts to mending relations with the Irish nation, which had been caught up in a mortal struggle between Loyalists and Republicans in Northern Ireland for nearly half a century. She began meeting with both sides in an effort to bring them together for peace talks in ending the Troubles at last. At first she was denounced as a do-gooder and a meddler, but those who met her began to realize her intentions were sincere. She immersed herself in research on the conflict and soon impressed representatives on both sides with her acumen. Eventually she was accepted as a legitimate mediator and was soon engaged in phone talks with the American President in the international peace effort.

The turning point came when representatives of the outlawed Irish Republican Army were invited to negotiations along with their political branch, Sinn Fein. They would be scheduled to meet with Loyalist emissaries as well as a contingency from the British Government led by Princess Jennifer. It would set a precedent in recognizing the IRA as a combatant force instead of a terrorist group, which would be a breakthrough in securing prisoners' rights and establishing their legitimacy as a military organization.

It was met with outrage by Loyalists throughout Northern Ireland, whose hardline policy defined the IRA as a criminal gang dedicated to the overthrow of the Ulster government. They threatened to boycott the peace talks and hinted at violent reprisals against Republican sympathizers. Militant groups such as the Ulster Defense Association awaited the go-ahead from their political counterparts, welcoming the opportunity to strike back at the hated IRA after chafing under the restrictions of the recent cease-fire. The whole world watched and waited as the next step towards peace in Northern Ireland had yet to be taken.

“I'm against this sitdown, your Highness,” Lord Scott Lipscomb, Jennifer's most trusted advisor, remained adamant as they approached the weekend of the peace negotiations at Stormont Castle in East Belfast. They met at Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh, where Jennifer began spending more time after Conrad's death to lend her aura of prestige to the Scottish monarchy. “The possibilities of disaster are endless. It is almost as if we're trying to ride a two-headed mule. Neither side seems willing to budge despite the fact that the Empire, the European Union and the United States are all doing everything in their power to make this happen. The crux of the argument is that we are legitimizing these IRA gangsters in the eyes of the world by inviting them to the table. There are rumors of the meeting itself being a target of a terror attack by extremists on both sides. I don't think anyone would blame you for missing this meeting.”

“That's impossible, Scott,” Jennifer insisted. She was a lovely woman at 5'6”, 130 pounds, with long blonde hair and emerald eyes, a generous bosom and an hourglass figure. “We were the ones who set this meeting up. How could we possibly walk away after getting both sides to give us their commitment? Not showing up is telling the whole world we don't trust either side.”

“If anything were to happen, it would entirely destroy the peace talks as well as cause irreparable damage to the Royal Family. Lord Layton was killed just a couple of years ago by terrorists, and our people are just recovering from the loss of the Prince. How could you expect us to bear yet another catastrophe if you were attacked by a gang of murderers?”

“We're going to be going around and around with this, and it's not going to accomplish anything. I think if we spent more time coordinating the event rather than planning to avoid it, we can ensure an even greater success. Why not look into having some special events for children and senior citizens from the Catholic and Protestant communities? Surely even the most hardcore extremists have a heart for their own children and the elderly. We can also invite church leaders from both sides to help us plan some events. If we use our imagination and put some effort into it, we can make all kinds of things happen.”

“These people don't give a damn about church or religion, it's never been about that. It's about the economy and political power. The Catholics are tired of being treated like foreigners in their own country, and the Protestants think we're going to abandon them to the Republican agenda and allow them to be absorbed into the Irish state. Both sides are like children frightened of being turned out into the cold.”

“They are our children, aren't they?” Jennifer insisted. “They're part of our family, and they will be treated as such. We have a responsibility to both sides, and history will be our judge if we do not take this opportunity to bring peace to Ulster at last.”

“I hope you're right, Your Highness. I certainly hope you're right.”

* * *

Berlin Mansfield would long wonder when his love affair with Jennifer Mac Manus began, or what it was that first enticed him. Was it the beauty of her publicity photos, the charisma and personality she exuded during her speeches, or the hint of the woman she was away from the cameras? He could never know for sure. What he did know was that he grew more fascinated as time passed, and the more he heard about her the more he wanted to meet her. When he was given an offer to take a contract to kill her, he decided it would be a perfect opportunity for their paths to cross at last.

“One hundred million?” the Al Qaeda representative asked in disbelief as Mansfield made his bid for the job. “Surely you jest. The Sheik's entire fortune is estimated at $300 million. Even if we asked you to kill the President of the United States I do not think you would be offered that kind of money.”

“I'm quite certain that you would,” Mansfield fixed his steely-eyed gaze on his host. They were meeting at Rules Restaurant on Maiden Lane in the Covent Garden district of London where they enjoyed a sumptuous dinner of Belted Galloway beef before getting down to business. Four Muslim gunmen stood watch around the rear booth as the terrorists discussed terms that evening. “Only the Americans would wipe you off the face of the earth if I did such a work for you. The Sheik is becoming quite the public figure these days. An interview on ABC News, following his ongoing discussions on the airwaves with Al-Jazeera. Certainly he realizes the worst thing that can happen to someone in this business is to be recognized, much less become a celebrity. If I killed the President for you, they would drop a nuclear bomb anywhere any of you was hiding.”

“You are the most wanted man on the planet next to the Sheik,” the Arab chuckled. “We would think you are quite a public figure in your own right.”

“That may be,” Mansfield shrugged. “Yet even you don't know what I look like.”

“Of course,” the Arab smiled softly. “The Man of a Thousand Faces. You are so right, my friend. The nations of the world search for a man they cannot even identify.”

“You know, I don't want to offend the Sheik. I don't want him to think that I am highballing him, or overpricing myself to get out of the job. Can you get him on the phone and see if he'll go for a better price?” Mansfield asked in an American accent. He took great pleasure in having those he met return to their superiors with completely different reports about the man they expected to meet.

“That is not possible, my friend. You know that. How much are we talking about?”

“Ninety million. I will kill her for ninety million.”

“My dear Mansfield,” the Arab looked down at his cup of espresso ruefully. “We are discussing the Princess of Edinburgh. If we asked you to kill both Elizabeth and the Queen Mother we might consider it. This woman is worth no more than ten million at the most, and for that I would have to get approval from the Sheik.”

“I've developed a gas similar to the Sarin compound,” Mansfield disclosed, taking a sip of his Moet et Chandon champagne. “It is entirely odorless and contains the same corrosives, only I've added a flammable component that can only be set off by another gaseous element. My team would release the gas near where the Princess was situated by means of a device that would spread the chemical along a twenty-yard radius. Once the secondary device was activated, her lungs along with everyone else's, and everything within contact, would explode in flames that would be impossible to extinguish for the first thirty seconds of combustion.”

“Sell us the formula,” the Arab insisted. “We will do the job ourselves with such a weapon. Name your price for this gas of yours.”

“Therein lies the problem. If you had the gas you wouldn't need me.”

“Ten million for the job, and twenty million for the formula. I will transfer the funds to your Swiss account immediately.”

“My friend, as the Americans say, you're not even in the ballpark,” Mansfield swallowed the dregs in his glass and rose to his feet. “Tell the Sheik how much I need, have him get back to me. You know how it works. If he considers seventy mil perhaps we can discuss this.”

“It has been an honor to meet you,” the Arab rose to shake his hand.

“Keep the faith,” Mansfield hugged him. “We are all within a heartbeat of meeting Allah.”

Mansfield left the restaurant, going to his BMW parked across the lot from the Arabs' Mercedes Benz. He quickly popped the trunk and pulled out a magnetic device, rushing over to the Arabs' vehicle and placing it on its underside. He darted back to his car and climbed inside, gunning the engine and cruising off the lot to a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. He was able to see the Mercedes from the rear view mirror as he activated the remote control device in the case on the seat beside him.

His logic was that Al Qaeda had refused to meet his price, making it seem as if Osama Bin Laden was their only source of financing, which he knew was a falsehood. Although he had overbid the job as he did not intend to kill the Princess, this was no longer the issue. Since they had tipped their hand, now Mansfield was a potential liability as he had knowledge of a possible attempt on her life. One of the extremists on the upper echelon might decide that Mansfield, in refusing to assist in the mission and knew of its existence, was an enemy of Allah who must be destroyed.

He waited until the five men exited the restaurant and got in the car. He figured that Al Qaeda would suspect either the Mossad or MI6 had discovered the presence of the terrorists and ordered the assassination. In either case, the name of Berlin Mansfield would most likely not come up as a possible suspect.

He opened the window and held the detonator out, pressing the button as the Mercedes Benz exploded with a deafening roar. He then put it back in its case and drove a block before putting it in a small sack and tossing it into a trash barrel on a street corner. He then headed back to his room at Claridge's in the Mayfair district, switching on the radio until he found a classical station to help lighten his mood.

Maybe Al Qaeda would be more accommodating in future.

* * *

The next morning, Jon Stevens and Slash Scimitar made their way along Great Eastern Street on the East End en route to the Hoxton Hotel. It was located in a trendier area of town frequented by young people, students and artists. The two men were somewhat surprised that their host had selected a place like this for an overnight stay, yet they also realized it was the least likely place someone like him would be found.

Fritz Hammer was a CIA legend, a Special Forces Captain in Vietnam who had over two hundred registered kills to his credit. He was sent to Iraq to direct traffic during Operation Desert Shield, taking down the remnants of Saddam Hussein's Republican Guard in the cleanup operations after the invasion. He then was sent to Serbia where he worked alongside militia forces loyal to the defunct Yugoslavian government before the country collapsed under civil war. He met Jon and Slash there, and sponsored their transfer to the Paramilitary Division where they were ranked among its top operatives. Hammer needed a favor and the men were glad to help.

“I'm sure you fellows are up to speed on the bombing last night,” Fritz said as he switched on the BBC broadcast on TV though muting the volume. Hammer walked around with a cane after suffering a hip injury during the Fall of Saigon. It did nothing to affect his career though he was notoriously grumpy on cold, humid days such as this.

“Yes sir, they mentioned that at least one of the victims was a known Al Qaeda operative,” Jon replied. He was an auburn-haired, athletically built man with lively green eyes and a quick smile. He was often mistaken for an artist or a student and would never be suspected of being one of the CIA's most accomplished assassins and saboteurs. Slash, a tall, lanky man with a swarthy look, was just as affable and every bit Jon's equal on the field.

“MI6 had a different take on how that went down,” Fritz replied. He was six feet tall with a blond crewcut and blue eyes, having reached 210 pounds after leaving the service though one could see it was solid muscle. “Their informants in Lebanon got word that they had been in contact with Berlin Mansfield to discuss a joint project. They don't know who it was that made the Al Qaeda agents, and of course everyone's denying any involvement. The overriding concern now is Mansfield. MI6 is on full alert, trying to determine whether Mansfield is in-country.”

“Berlin Mansfield,” Jon glanced over at Slash as they sat on armchairs facing Hammer, who was propped against the headboard of the comfortable double bed. “That's some heavy shit. What do they figure him for, blowing up Big Ben? London Bridge?”

“We have no idea. What we are concerned with is the upcoming peace negotiations scheduled at the Hotel Europa this weekend. The entire thing is a train wreck waiting to happen, but it's gone too far to call off. Some of the biggest IRA godfathers in Northern Ireland are scheduled to be there, as well as the top Unionist leaders and delegates from Parliament. Death threats were coming from everywhere, but everyone finally realizes that an attack on one will be an attack on all. Even so, an international terrorist organization like Al Qaeda or someone like Mansfield wouldn't be concerned by any such repercussions.”

“Why would they be sticking their nose into something like that?” Slash wondered.

“The IRA's been doing business with the PLO (*Palestine Liberation Organization) for a number of years now. A peace agreement would result in a major loss of revenue. Plus an attack by Al Qaeda against the UK could easily be construed as a blow against British imperialism.”

“Makes sense. Do we get tickets to the ball?”

“I want you guys to conduct surveillance outside the hotel. There will be a small security detachment in place to protect Princess Jennifer and the delegates, but the police and MI6 will not be out in force because they don't want to scare off the IRA representatives. The reasoning is that MI6, the Constabulary and everyone else would be using the occasion to update their databases. Everyone knows that the IRA will be sending their own bodyguards along with their spokesmen, so for all attempts and purposes they'll be providing security for everyone.”

“Who in hell dreamed all this up?”

“Who knows. You can be sure the Brits'll have personnel on standby for ready deployment in case of emergency, but they'll be keeping the immediate vicinity clear to allay suspicion of a double-cross. I'll bet the police would probably have warrants on half the delegates if they had their way out there. Princess Jennifer and her people gave their word, and the Brits'll have to abide by it.”

“So how are we gonna get away with loitering on the street?”

“You two'll be hanging out at the Crown Bar across the street. Keep your eyes open, find a spot by the window, go on outside for a smoke and take a little stroll. You two have been on these kinds of assignments as many times as anyone else in the Company. You know exactly what to look for. You see anyone looking like they're setting up shop you'll move in, intercept their operatives and abort the operation.”

“Will we be carrying?”

“.22 caliber pistols at best. In the event there are any British agents in the Crown Bar, I wouldn't want them putting the make on you and having you intercepted. You have to understand, this war has been going on for a long time. Lots of British agents, soldiers and cops have seen close friends go six feet under during this conflict. Everyone realizes that having IRA men walking down Great Victoria Street is going to be like parading canaries before a row of alley cats. The UDA (*Ulster Defense Association) would love to plant a car bomb in front of the hotel if it weren't for the fact that some of their top guys'll be inside. We can't prepare for everything, but having you two out near the front of the place will provide some assurance.”

“What's the Company's interest here?”

“In case you hadn't noticed, the President is Irish-American. There's nothing he'd want more than to have his name associated with a peace agreement in Northern Ireland. There's even rumors he's planning to invite Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness to the White House. If anything were to go down and you two kept it from happening, rest assured you'd probably end up with executive jobs in Langley for the rest of your careers.”

“Like you?”

“That's it. Get out.”

“Good seeing you again.”

“Give my best to the Princess.”

“Sure will.”

* * *

In the fishing village of Dundalk just outside the Irish border, Mike O'Beirne had made arrangements to meet with a special guest. O'Beirne was one of the most important IRA godfathers in Ulster, and was generally considered to be semi-retired though highly respected by the Army Councils in each major city. He had been invited as one of the IRA delegates at the meeting at the Hotel Europa, and was contacted shortly thereafter by this visitor.

Despite the fact the man came alone, Mike had three cars of four-man fire teams posted around the property. When they found out who was visiting O'Beirne they were just as alarmed as he was, yet would not think of leaving the venerated leader to his own devices. They came armed to the teeth and stared around the countryside, wondering what contingencies the visitor might have made in ensuring his own security.

“So what brings you down here to Dundalk?” Mike asked, lighting his pipe as they sat in front of his fireplace in the stately cottage. They were both comfortable on the overstuffed recliners in the traditionally furnished living room.

“Business and pleasure,” Berlin Mansfield smiled. O'Beirne would have never recognized him from the last time they met. He was no more recognizable then than he was the time before that. Mike's red hair had grayed over the past ten years, and he had wrinkled considerably as a result of the tension caused by the Troubles. He remembered Mansfield from a bombing in London, and had briefly spent time with him as the operation progressed. He hardly considered Mansfield an acquaintance, and was more than surprised when Berlin called to arrange a visit.

“What pleasure could there be in this business of ours?” Mike wondered.

“You know my father was from Belfast. My roots are here.”

“Aye, but you were born in that splendid city you were named after. This business is your trade. Those of us involved in our struggle were forced into it.”