roof sped by in a blur, and dangerously close.
'What the hell is going on, Henri?' Dodi bellowed, leaning forward from the rear. 'Are you out of your fucking mind? Slow down, for God's sake!'
Henri Paul downshifted and braked in an effort to get the speeding car under control.
At that moment, Diana, terrified that Henri was out of control and driving dangerously, peered over Trevor's shoulder, fearing for her life.
Something caught her eye just to the right of the Mercedes.
She saw a large blue-and-white motorcycle with two men, a squat driver and a taller man behind him on the pillion seat. As the big bike pulled abreast of them, she saw the man on the rear seat reach into the camera bag slung across his shoulders.
'I'll lose this fucking bastard, just you watch,' Henri Paul said, accelerating once more.
'No!' Trevor shouted. 'Slow down, Henri, damn you! One more stupid picture doesn't matter. And the rest of the pack is at least a bloody mile behind us.'
Henri Paul ignored the bodyguard and downshifted, depressing the accelerator, determined not to let these mongrels overtake him and his precious cargo. He was shocked to see the motorcycle effortlessly rocket ahead of him, despite his efforts.
Suddenly the motorcycle swerved directly in front of the Mercedes, red brake lights flashing.
What the hell?
'Seat belts!' Trevor shouted again, desperately snatching his own across his chest. Diana strained forward between the two front seats, looking at the motorcycle now directly in their path, red taillights flashing, obviously braking to get a shot of their terrified faces through the windshield.
'God damn these people!' she cried out, tears coursing down her cheeks, bringing her fist down in frustration on Trevor's massive shoulder.
Would there ever be peace for her? Ever?
She saw the man on the cycle's rear turn around and face them, raising his camera-no, not a camera-some other kind of thing, like a strange gun, and-
A blinding flash of light exploded into Henri Paul's and Trevor's eyes. Inside the Mercedes, the awesome power of the Northrop ten-thousand-watt military laser gun was devastating.
Instantly blinded by the catastrophic glare, stunned, and completely disoriented, driver Henri Paul took both hands off the wheel and covered his scalded eyes. Dodi and Diana froze. They were skidding and swerving directly toward the tunnel's massive center pillars.
'Oh, God!' Diana screamed, blinded, and fully cognizant of certain death exploding in her brain.
'Oh, dear God, we're going to-'
In a split second the heavy Mercedes slammed headlong into the thirteenth concrete pillar at full speed. Henri never even had the chance to apply the brakes. The airbags all deployed on impact, but since none of the occupants were wearing seat belts, they afforded scant protection.
Dodi and Henri Paul died instantly. Trevor, hurled facefirst into the windshield, was knocked unconscious, the entire front of his face ripped away.
The Princess of Wales was alive.
But she had sustained a massive internal injury when the car's arrested momentum flung her violently against the front seat. She was bleeding from the nose and ears, lodged between the backseat and Trevor's seat. Her heart was still beating strongly.
It was pumping blood slowly but surely through the small tear in her aorta, the red tide rising steadily inside her thoracic cavity. As time passed, the invisible wound was slowly bleeding what precious little was left of her life out of her.
Horn wailing, water, steam, and smoke rising from the shattered engine of the unrecognizable Mercedes, Diana, Princess of Wales, lay in the darkened, crumpled vehicle, moaning softly, 'Oh my God, oh my dear God.'
IN A HEAVILY WOODED AREA of the Bois de Boulogne, on a dark and empty street, Smith ordered his driver, Omar, to stop the motorcycle. He needed to stretch his legs, he said, climbing off the pillion seat and walking around to the front of the BMW.
'Dead men tell no tales,' Smith said, and, turning, plunged his stiletto straight into the man's heart. Then he lowered the kickstand and pulled Omar's body back to the pillion seat. After attaching Velcro straps to each of his wrists, he climbed aboard the BMW. He pulled the straps forward, fastening them around his waist.
And then he disappeared into the summer night.
THIRTY-SEVEN
IN THE GREY DUSK OF A LATE summer evening, three men stood on a hillside in the shadows of a thick wood, gazing at a house standing at the bottom of the hill. The wind was howling dismally, with only the harsh, discordant cry of an occasional seagull rising above the wind. The tide was in and with it came a dank, iodine-tinged mist. There was an occasional rumble of thunder to the west, perhaps a storm rolling in from the sea.
The old three-story house was called the Barking Dog Inn. It seemed deserted and gave off an almost sinister appearance. All the windows were shuttered. The uncared-for gardens were a mass of unkempt weeds and desolate, overgrown flower beds. The unpainted garden gate opening onto the dirt road, a former cart track, was in need of a top hinge and swung drunkenly in the wind from the unpainted fence. A few tired trees surrounded the inn, swaying dismally in the wet wind.
Through his binoculars, Hawke saw that it was a property gradually falling to pieces through lack of attention. So far off the beaten track, it was unlikely it would ever receive any. In short, it was perfect in every way, the very ideal of an IRA safe house. Perhaps, though he doubted it, McMahon had been telling the truth after all.
'Admirable,' Ambrose Congreve remarked. 'A safe house so situated is a godsend to anyone who covets his privacy.'
'Aye,' Drummond said. 'I've lived in these parts for nigh on sixty years and I've never even heard of this infernal place. No one has used this place, much less this road, for years.'
'McMahon vouches for it,' Congreve said, like a man still less than convinced the house was anything it was purported to be.
'Not exactly the beehive of terrorist activity our highly paid informant described,' Alex Hawke commented. 'Let's go down and have a closer look, shall we?'
As the men started down the steep and muddy hillside, branches dripping with moisture brushed across their faces and they all turned their collars up against the evening chill. It was slippery going and they had to step carefully to avoid a sudden fall.
Hawke took the lead and was slightly annoyed at his comrades' lack of progress. It would soon be nightfall, he thought, pausing to give Congreve and Drummond a chance to catch up. He'd no intention of an all-night stakeout in this forbidding place-especially with rain threatening at any second. Foolishly, they'd not prepared for this at all.
'What was that?' Ambrose said suddenly, gripping Drummond's shoulder and looking round at something or other.
'Nothing,' Hawke said irritably. 'What do you think it was?'
Congreve, peering fearfully into the gloom, said, 'Thought I heard a creaking sound over there-as if something, or someone, were moving through the bushes. Must have been the wind, I suppose.'
'Of course it was the wind,' Drummond said. 'What are you so damn jumpy about?'
'Jumpy? I'll damn well tell you what I'm jumpy about. And frankly, I'm surprised the notion hasn't occurred to you as well.'
'What are you talking about?'
'A trap, Bulldog. I don't trust this bloke McMahon a tinker's damn. A duplicitous drunkard. Suppose he had second thoughts? Woke up in a panic? Told his IRA mates about his conversation with Hawke and me at the
