of that police cell and given him the telephone number that had changed his life.
She balled her fist and tapped his shoulder. 'So now you are here and now I am with you. Enough talking. What are we going to do?'
Carver propped himself up on an elbow. 'Follow the money,' he said.
33
Sir Perceval Wake pressed the button on the antiquated intercom that linked his study with his secretary's desk outside. 'Send him in.'
The apartment in Eaton Square where he lived and worked occupied two floors of a tall, white house. It stood in a terrace of identical buildings lining a broad boulevard running from the aristocratic playground of Sloane Square to the walls of Buckingham Palace. The government departments of Whitehall were just a five-minute cab ride away. This was one of the world's most expensive neighborhoods. Wake's hunger for money and influence had always been as great as his thirst for knowledge.
For decades, Her Majesty's government had come to Sir Perceval Wake for advice and paid handsomely for the privilege, as had the chief executives of city institutions and multinational corporations. He'd begun his career as a political history lecturer at Oxford University, but he did not linger long among the city's brilliant but impoverished academics. In 1954 he published a book based on his postgraduate thesis. It was provocatively entitled, Useful Idiots: The Role of Western Intellectuals in the Spread of Communist Dictatorship. At a time when most supposedly progressive, liberal thinkers still believed that the Soviet Union was a force for good in the world, Wake's ideas exploded like a hand grenade in a barrel of fish. He became a hate figure on the left and an icon on the right.
Within weeks of publication, he was invited to attend a private conference of politicians, financiers, and thinkers from Europe and the United States that met at the Hotel Bilderberg in Arnhem, Holland. The organizers aimed to protect Western democracy and free markets against the Communist tide. That original meeting evolved into an annual event, an institution in its own right. For over forty years, Wake had been an active member of the Bilderberg Group, whose secret meetings, attended by some of the richest and most powerful men on earth, had become the focus of countless conspiracy theories. He regularly attended the World Economic Forum in Davos. He traveled to the 2,700-acre estate of Bohemian Grove in Sonoma County, California, to join the cast of rich, powerful, male Americans parading in torchlight before a giant, fake stone owl and-the conspiracy theorists insisted-hatching plots for global domination.
To Wake, the accumulation of power and influence was a matter of duty as well as a personal pleasure. He believed that people like him, the ones who truly understood the world, were obliged to save its people from the consequences of their own stupidity. Left to their own devices, the masses made distressingly poor decisions. They elected genocidal maniacs like Hitler. They swore allegiance to tyrannical despots like Stalin and Mao Tse-tung. It was really best for everyone if running the planet was left to the experts.
He rose from his desk to greet his visitor. Wake had taken great care to cultivate his appearance, from the artfully unkempt mane of silver hair that he swept back over his ears to the custom-made tweed jackets, soft cotton shirts, and corduroy trousers that signified both his affluence and his status as a free thinker. By contrast, Jack Grantham's drab suit demonstrated that even as a senior officer of MI6 he was, in the end, just another civil servant. Still, it would be unwise to underestimate him. Grantham did not possess the usual flabby pallor of a desk-bound bureaucrat, and there was a look of measured, skeptical assessment in his gray eyes.
He had the air, Wake decided, of a man who had come a long way, but still had farther to go. His energies had not yet been depleted by the unrelenting grind of the Whitehall machine, and there was a toughness about him that was as much mental as physical. He would not be fobbed off by easy options or the countless excuses that officialdom found for inaction. Wake had been keeping an eye on Grantham's career for some time. He was curious to see whether his abilities matched his growing reputation.
They exchanged a cordial handshake.
'Jack, my boy, how very good to see you.'
Grantham responded with a single sharp nod of acknowledgment.
'So, how are things down at Vauxhall Cross?' Wake asked, settling back down behind his desk and waving in the direction of a chair to let his guest know that he could sit too.
'Things could be better,' Grantham replied. 'That crash in Paris has stirred things up.'
'I daresay it has. No doubt there will be claims that it could have been prevented, but I can't see that you have any need to be concerned. After all, it was simply an accident. A ghastly, tragic accident, of course, but nothing to worry the secret intelligence service.'
'That depends. We think this might have been a hit. So we're wondering who might have wanted to kill the princess, or her companion, and why?'
'What does that have to do with me?' Wake leaned forward a fraction. His interest had been piqued.
'Well, you've studied every threat to our national security for the past forty years. You've known our leaders and half our enemies' leaders too. You've been in the room when people have discussed and even planned operations off the books. So you tell me. Why would anyone want to kill the Princess of Wales?'
'Well, now, that's an intriguing question,' said Wake, relaxing back into his chair. 'I imagine you're not the only one asking it. Has the media raised the prospect of foul play?'
The MI6 man shook his head. 'Not yet, but it's only a matter of time. Some of the wilder conspiracy-theory Web sites are claiming the princess was pregnant. The boyfriend's father swears that the Duke of Edinburgh has been plotting against him. And the princess herself apparently believed the Prince of Wales would have her killed in a car crash. We think she put it all down on tape. God help us if that ever sees the light of day.'
Wake sighed. 'The poor girl, she always had such a desperate need for love, such a strong sense of persecution. Not surprising, I suppose. The parents' divorce was particularly messy. So, was she pregnant?'
'We don't know. We don't think so.'
'Never mind. It's not important. The princess was no longer a member of the royal family, so even if she had given birth, her future children would have had no constitutional significance. Nor do I believe for one second that any member of the royal family would have anything whatever to do with an assassination, under any circumstances. The very idea is absurd.'
Grantham paused for a second before he spoke again. When he did, his words were impeccably polite, his voice was quiet, yet with a steely tone. 'I'm not suggesting that the palace had any direct involvement, but there may have been others who believed they were acting in the monarchy's or the country's best interests. Let's just suppose-hypothetically-that such people existed. What would be their motive for committing such a crime?'
Wake picked up a pen from the desk in front of him and tapped it a couple of times on the walnut surface, gathering his thoughts. Then he began to speak.
'I went for a walk yesterday evening, up to the palace. It was quite extraordinary. Huge crowds were gathered in front of the gates, and there was an anger about them, a feverish intensity quite unlike anything I have ever known in this country. They were hurt, bereft, and they wanted someone to blame. It would only have taken one man on a soapbox to whip them into a frenzy, and I swear they would have stormed the gates.'
Grantham seemed about to interrupt, but Wake held up a hand. 'Let me continue. I walked down Constitution Hill, through Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens. On the grass in front of Kensington Palace, below the princess's apartment, there is a mass, a veritable sea of flowers. Some are magnificent bouquets, some just pathetic little bunches of wilting blooms, but all of them are laid there in tribute. And every minute that passes, more people are bringing more flowers, more messages, more candles. They are talking to one another, weeping, complete strangers collapsing into one another's arms.
'This is something entirely new. All the reserve that has long characterized our nation, all that stiff upper lip and muddling through, has been replaced by an almost wanton hysteria. And yet at the same time it's actually quite primitive, a return to the cult of the goddess, the mother. Clearly the princess symbolized something extraordinarily powerful. So I can't help but ask myself: If this is the influence she could exert after death, what might have happened had she lived?
'Yesterday the prime minister called her the People's Princess. It was a trite little phrase, but telling all the same. She did indeed have a remarkable hold over the people, and every interview she gave, every picture for which
