Page 24 of The Unlikely Spare
Scotland Yard’s briefing rooms always smell the same, like institutional disinfectant layered over decades of sweat and shite coffee.
I sit ramrod straight in my chair as Detective Chief Superintendent Martin Thornton spreads documents across the conference table. Four weeks of undercover work as a protection agent, and I’m back in this windowless room with Thornton and Pierce to report on my progress.
Or my lack of progress in this case.
For the first time in my professional life, I’m failing. I have no leads. No anything.
“Intelligence reports indicate a concerning pattern,” Thornton says, his gruff Yorkshire accent filling the room. “Since the palace announced Prince Nicholas would replace Prince Callum on the Australia-New Zealand tour, we’ve detected an alarming surge in activity.”
Pierce, seated to Thornton’s right, slides a folder toward me.
I flick through it. Christ. No wonder they’re worried. Coded communication, dormant accounts suddenly springing to life, burner phones activating in patterns throughout Australia.
It’s like watching a sleeping beast wake up.
“It’s incredibly similar to the pattern that happened before the Matheson-Webley kidnapping that we only saw retrospectively,” Thornton says.
“You think this mystery group is going to target Prince Nicholas while he’s on tour,” I say.
Pierce nods. “It definitely looks that way.”
“The most concerning thing is the activity began a few hours before the palace’s announcement about Prince Nicholas,” Thornton says.
It takes a few seconds before the implications hit me.
“You think they knew about the switch before it was public?” I ask slowly.
“Yes.” Pierce rubs between his eyebrows. “And obviously, combined with the intelligence reports of a sleeper agent, this places the Prince’s protection team under the spotlight.”
Thornton leans forward. “O’Connell, you’ve been embedded with the protection team for four weeks now. What’s your assessment?”
I sort through what I can tell them. “Rick Cavendish runs his team with military precision—ex-SAS with an unblemished service record.
“Officer Blake has excellent instincts, particularly for crowd assessment. Singh’s social adaptability makes him valuable at public functions. Malcolm is methodical to the point of obsession—I caught him triple-checking the same security feed three times in fifteen minutes last night. MacLeod brings practical experience. And Davis, while inexperienced, is attentive and eager to prove himself.”
“Any suspicious behavior? Unexplained absences? Unusual communications?” Pierce presses, his keen eyes focused on me like he’s willing me to give him something, anything.
Christ. He’d probably fought for me to get this assignment, convinced Thornton that his former protégé could handle a case this big. And here I am, four weeks in with fuck all to show for it.
I’ve spent long hours analyzing each team member, watching for inconsistencies or any unusual patterns. So far, nothing.
Which either means they’re all clean, or whoever’s working against us is exceptionally good.
“Nothing that’s got my hackles up,” I reply honestly. “I’ve been through the duty rosters with a magnifying glass, and there are no patterns in the sick days or holiday requests that raise flags. Background checks on extended family revealed nothing beyond a few parking tickets and one cousin with a cannabis warning. I’ve checked for unauthorized devices, unusual Bluetooth connections, signs of electronic dead drops, but there’s absolutely nothing that hints ‘I’m selling secrets to terrorists.’”
“And the prince himself?” Pierce asks. “Is there anyone else in his circle who could present a weak link? Anyone who could be potentially compromised or manipulated?”
I contemplate his question, the faces of Nicholas’s entourage flickering through my mind.
The thing is, for all of Prince Nicholas’s charm and reputation as a playboy prince, he doesn’t appear to have many personal friends. He definitely has a wide circle of acquaintances, but besides his brother Prince Callum, there doesn’t seem to be anyone he’s particularly close to. It’s all champagne toasts and inside jokes until something genuine threatens to surface, then he retreats behind snarky banter.
The people that the prince interacts with most frequently are his security team.
Unfortunately for me, any interactions I personally have with the prince aren’t exactly pleasant.
Ever since I called him out about his callous behavior to his mother at Rosemere Hall, the prince has made it his personal mission to be a complete pain in my arse. Like yesterday at the hospital opening. The little shit deliberately wandered off the approved route to chat with patients, leaving me scrambling after him while he threw that smug look over his shoulder. The one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing and is enjoying every feckin’ second of it.
Last week was worse. Introduced me to the Danish ambassador as his “shadow with a pulse,” then asked, in front of everyone, if I’d demonstrate proper tackling technique. “Since you’re so skilled at it,” he’d said, all wide-eyed innocence like butter wouldn’t melt.
