Avalon (42 page)

Below those charming words was a picture of the King himself in battle fatigues, gripping the upper arm of a dusky, young, vaguely Asiatic lovely in frilly knickers.

The photo was a fake. He’d never manhandled any civilians of any age, race, sex, or description in his life. Still, there it was in grainy poor-quality color. The camera may not lie, but photographs rarely tell the truth. And a desktop computer could make a barefaced liar out of even the most innocent snapshot.

If the picture was bad, the accompanying story was worse. The writers, who were evidently quite accustomed to skating close to the edge, managed to insinuate an enormous amount without ever once coming right out and saying anything actionable. The story was peppered through and through with “allegedly” and “apparently” and “our intimate sources would seem to indicate.” Nothing was stated in objective terms — it was all allusion, suggestion, and barbed innuendo.

The tale emerging from the welter of insinuation was that while a young, fast-rising officer assigned to the UN Peacekeeping Force in Kazakhstan, the King had become heavily involved with local gangster chieftains who paid him vast sums of money to turn a blind eye to their criminal activities — smuggling, drugs, prostitution, and so on — and that, on several occasions, Captain James Stuart had allowed these warlords to conduct paramilitary operations which resulted in the torture and execution of captured prisoners of war.

The crowning glory of this scurrilous claptrap was the final sentence which condemned him with a question: “If His Majesty has nothing to hide, why not come clean?”

It’s a simple journalistic technique, and one employed often enough in the tabloids. Never had James appreciated the devastating impact it could have on an individual. He read the damning words, and a feeling of impotent rage surged up inside that left him shaking.

Worse was to come.

Next morning’s press brought a real gem: “As unanswered allegations mount, and the King continues to barricade himself behind a stone wall of silence, we may be forced to the conclusion that we have been deceived by a smooth-talking scoundrel, and that our monarch is little more than a common thug.”

“Do they never get tired of slinging muck?” James growled, shaking the paper. It was early in the morning following a bad night’s sleep, and he was of a sour disposition that was not improved by his survey of the day’s press.

Gavin, reading from one of the dailies heaped on the table, said, “Listen to this one, sir. It says that a lengthy and thorough examination of significant documents has failed to lay the accusations to rest. They say your service record has been subsequently amended to expunge any mention of an official reprimand for what they are calling, and I quote: grievous impropriety of a criminal nature, end of quote.”

“Oh, that’s very clever,” James grumbled. “Very shrewd. My service record is clean, so that proves someone must have tampered with it.” He threw the paper down in disgust. “They must get paid by the lie.”

James, restless now, and frustrated at his inability to fight back effectively, stormed up to Shona’s office and had her put in a call to Embries, who was still in London. “Patience, James,” he advised. “It is difficult, I know, but the truth will win out. You must believe that.”

They talked for a few minutes more, and Embries assured him that he was doing everything he could to discover the source of the scurrilous stories. James hung up no better for the encouragement; the appeal to truth was all well and good, but meanwhile the accusations and allegations mounted. The heat increased, and James simmered in a stew of anger and exasperation. Jenny phoned regularly with offers of tea and sympathy, but James insisted she was well out of it. “You know I’d love to see you,” he told her, “but if those jackals got so much as a glimpse of you, you’d be dragged into this quagmire with me.”

“Do I care?” she replied, the defiance in her voice filling James with pride. “If I want to see my sweetheart, I’m not about to let a bunch of slimeball sleaze merchants stand in the way.”

“We can thank God they haven’t caught wind of our engagement,” James told her. “Until they do, we’re going to have to stay away from each other.”

“I think it stinks,” Jenny told him. “You can tell them all I said so.”

The media mob, frantic for the next new scoop, disregarded their previous agreement with Shona, swarming the road, drive, and yard outside Castle Morven. The local constabulary did their best to keep the journalists in check and the merely curious moving, but there were so many it was all they could do to maintain a clear path to let legitimate traffic through. Shona, furious at the outrageous disobedience of her orders, flew around like a harpy in search of victims to devour. Inundated by frenzied demands for information, she was forced to disconnect all the phones with listed numbers in order to keep the ceaseless ringing from driving everyone mad. Meanwhile, Cal and Mr. Baxter mounted a ground war to keep reporters from jumping the estate walls or sneaking down through the woods.

The photographers were growing increasingly aggressive and obnoxious. Setting stepladders against the wall, they kept their megazoom lenses trained on the doors and windows day and night, hollering constantly for someone to come out and give them “five minutes, just five minutes.” The mere shadow of a figure in window or doorway was enough to trip flashguns and set motor drives whirring.

To pass the time, the castle prisoners watched the various news broadcasts, restlessly clicking through the channels to catch the latest gossip — or, as one of the presenters put it: “the latest developments in this deepening crisis of confidence in our beleaguered monarchy.”

“At this hour,” said a reporter stationed outside in the winter darkness, “the uncrowned King sits besieged behind his high walls — high walls which cannot keep out the deepening scandal surrounding his rumor-plagued reign. Tonight fresh allegations have surfaced linking money from drug-dealing and other criminal activities to the King’s Blair Morven estate.

“These new allegations bring into serious question the ability of a junior officer in the armed forces to fund a lifestyle far in excess of the salary for his rank and seniority. Further, it has been suggested that the proceeds from His Majesty’s illicit dealings have, in fact, gone to finance the acquisition of Castle Morven, and subsequently played a large part in securing his kingship.”

“Finance the acquisition, my butt,” James grumbled. “If I had even half the money they say I’ve got, I’d buy my own newspaper and everybody could read about what crap merchants these hacks really are.”

“Dogs running to their own vomit,” said Cal. “Say the word, Jimmy, and I’ll get a bunch of them in here and knock some heads together.”

“Shona’s working on a categorical denial,” Gavin offered, trying to sound hopeful. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll make them eat every column inch.”

“The damage is already done,” James concluded. “Even if I go on to prove every last accusation false, half the people will still believe I’m a criminal — and the other half will always wonder. Once the doubt has been created, it taints everything,
and
it lasts forever.”

With each new “revelation of shocking misconduct,” James’ confidence drooped a little lower. Shona’s, however, seemed to expand accordingly. “Some of those people out there are going to be very sorry they chose journalism for a career,” she vowed darkly. “When I find out who started this libel fest, I am going to have their heads nailed to the Press Association door.”

She threw her clipboard onto the untidy stack of newspapers Gavin had gathered through the day. “I’ve seen every story,” she indicated the papers, “and I’ve tracked each new wrinkle as it has developed. I think I’ve got an idea how this is spreading.” Taking up her clipboard, she handed it to the King. “I’ve noted a number of repetitive phrases and marked them in this column. Then, I cited individual newspapers here.” She pointed to a second column.

Pulling a mobile phone from her pocket, she began punching in numbers. “I’ve got a call in to one of my moles. I’m going to check with him now to see what he’s found out. Won’t take a sec.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

James wandered off to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. When he returned, Shona announced, “It’s a smear job, Your Highness. Vicious and nasty as they come.”

“Was there ever any doubt?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Never mind. Tell me what you’ve found out.”

“Have a look at this,” she said, extending her clipboard. “Gavin’s compiled a rough list, and it shows pretty much what I expected. I’ve put him to work tracking down the individual reporters; we’ll have a list of those next.”

Taking the clipboard, James saw that two phrases jumped out: “compromised command hierarchy” and “overreached UN conventions,” and several others. The first had been used in no fewer than six papers, and the second in five; the others had been used in two or three each.

“Setting aside all the rest as coincidences,” she said, tapping the remaining list with a short finger, “these two are proof enough.”

“That the stories are made up?”

“That the stories all derived from a single source,” she said, perching on the arm of the chair. “Most journalists — when they’re copying someone else’s feed — take care to dress it up a little. Professional pride, you know? Sometimes, though, they come across a word or turn of phrase they sort of like, right? Well, the dimmer ones can’t improve on it, and the brighter ones can’t resist having everyone think it’s theirs. They’re like magpies: they see a shiny bauble and they gotta have it.”

“So this repetition means they all took their information from a single source.”

“They’re all singing off the same hymn sheet.” She rapped the clipboard in James’ hands for emphasis. “Someone supplied them with information to get the ball rolling — probably not all of them, but more than one.” She paused, and James returned her notes. “My best guess is that somebody’s set up a drip feed and is giving out carefully measured does to keep everybody hooked and happy. Very crude.”

“But effective, it would seem. What can we do about it?”

“I say we issue a statement and call them on it — demand to be shown the smoking gun, as it were. Challenge them to put up or shut up. If there
is
anything of substance, they have nothing to gain by keeping it from us. If they refuse to bring out the evidence, it will make them look bad. Either way, we’re no worse off.”

“I’ll think about it,” he told her.

Shona’s mobile phone chirped just then. She answered it, and handed it to James. “It’s Embries.”

“Shona has informed me of her investigations,” he said. “Added to what I have discovered, I can say that this appears to be the work of someone in, or very close to, the Waring government.”

“You’re sure?”

“Reasonably certain, yes. The trail, as expected, has become very muddy. There have been so many feet tramping about in this, absolute certainty is no longer possible. Rhys and I are returning to Blair Morven first thing tomorrow morning. Do nothing until I get there.”

James called Jenny again later that night. They spent an hour on the phone together. He told her what Embries had said about the likelihood of the Waring government being involved in the smear campaign. “I never liked that man,” Jenny replied. “I would love nothing more than to rub his face in it the way he’s rubbed yours.”

“I love you, too,” James told her. “Embries is coming back tomorrow and we’re going to figure out what to do.”

They said their good-byes then, and James went to bed and rose the next morning to face yet another day of infamy in the nation’s media.

The morning’s crop of newspapers brought no joy. The accusation of service misconduct and subsequent cover-up was repeated in no fewer than four papers. It was cold comfort that some of the more respectable news organizations declined to run anything more than lengthy reports of the other papers’ investigations.

Both
The Times
and
The Guardian
, in a rare moment of agreement, called for a full public inquiry into the King’s affairs since leaving the service.
The Observer
and
Evening Standard
looked gleefully ahead to the impending referendum, and predicted a resounding victory for what they called “the spirit of new republicanism” which they insisted was sweeping through the land. The
Daily Star
offered readers a chance to win a holiday in Florida by guessing most closely the number of votes that would be cast against the King on Referendum Day.

Meanwhile,
The Sun
, anticipating a royal stonewalling, condemned the lack of communication and declared it the “silence of the damned.” Carried away with their tenuous pun, they showed a computer-aided photo of James as Hannibal Lector; it looked more like a fuzzy Freddie Krueger than the King, so the insult value was minimal.

As soon as Embries and Rhys returned from London, James called a staff meeting to decide how to respond to the continued media attacks.

“There is a psalm of King David,” James began, “a king who knew a thing or two about misery.” Reciting from memory, James said, “‘Be gracious to me, O God, for the enemy persecute me; my assailants harass me. All day long watchful foes torment me; countless are those who assail me….’”

James leaned forward and put his hands flat on the table. “I am sick of being the media’s whipping boy. I won’t take it anymore.”

“What do you want to do?” asked Cal quietly.

“That’s what we’re here to figure out,” James said. He stood abruptly and began pacing behind his chair. “All I know is that I cannot and will not let it go on like this.” He flipped a hand in the direction of the front lawn where the media pack was maintaining its prurient vigil. “They
allege
, they
attribute
; they speculate and implicate — they damn you to hell with insinuation. Just once I wish one of those rumormongers out there would drop the sanctimonious attitude and lay his facts on the table for the world to see.”