Page 5 of The Unlikely Spare
“The demographics are peculiar too,” Pierce adds, the fluorescent lights catching the gray threading through his close-cropped hair. “One Russian, who appears to be simply a gun for hire. But then there’s a Cypriot. An Egyptian. The Australian pilot. No apparent ideological or national connection.”
“It’s not Islamic extremists?” I ask.
Pierce shakes his head. “They’ve never outsourced attacks before. There have been no claims of responsibility, no religious messaging.”
“Russian intelligence?” I try again. “They’ve got form for targeting British institutions.”
“Possibly,” Thornton acknowledges, “but why Matheson and Webley specifically? And why kidnap rather than kill? It doesn’t fit their usual operational patterns.”
Walters leans forward. “And we’ve run traces on all recovered equipment. No links to known state actors or terror groups.”
“What about home-grown radicals?” I ask. Growing up in Belfast in the early 2000s, I’d seen what the dying embers of political violence looked like. Thirty years of war between those who wanted a united Ireland and those loyal to Britain had officially ended, but peace was still learning how to breathe. Older men in pubs still speaking in code, mothers who flinched at car backfires, the ghosts of bombs that never quite left the air.
“Home-grown radicals aren’t organized enough,” Walters says bluntly. “The groups we monitor couldn’t pull off something this coordinated without us catching chatter beforehand.”
“And we’ve got some other intel coming through to us that this group isn’t done yet, and that Paul wasn’t their only sleeper agent on the inside,” Thornton says, meeting my eyes directly.
And there it is. The reason I’m here.
“You think there are more infiltrators in RaSP,” I say.
It’s a scary thought. If even one member of RaSP is dirty, then every public figure in the United Kingdom is at risk.
“Yes, we suspect there are,” Thornton replies. “Which makes this situation dangerous. Paul Hargrove proves these people are patient. They’re willing to integrate themselves completely into the system, become trusted colleagues, even friends.”
“We can’t afford another security breach,” Pierce speaks up, his voice grave. “Not after Matheson-Webley. The public’s confidence in our ability to protect public figures is already fragile.”
“So what’s the plan?” I ask. “Investigate the entire Royal and Specialist Protection Command? That’s hundreds of officers.”
“We’re narrowing it down,” Thornton says. “Starting with the protection officers for the highest-value targets.”
He slides another photograph across the desk. I recognize this face immediately.
Prince Nicholas Alexander, the younger half-brother of the Prince of Wales. He’s the royal “spare,” elevated in the line of succession after a scandal in the royal family a few years ago reshuffled the deck.
The tabloids love him—the party prince with the perfect smile who haunts exclusive clubs with an ever-changing cast of glamorous companions.
In this particular shot, he’s emerging from some nightclub, designer clothes disheveled, flashing a grin that probably makes hearts stop across the United Kingdom.
The photo of him definitely makes my heart react, but not in the same way.
Because Northern Ireland and the royals are like that couple who had a messy breakup but still share a flat because of the lease. Eight hundred years of the English monarchs and the aristocracy helping themselves to Irish land, Irish crops, Irish everything, then acting shocked when we weren’t grateful for the privilege. They planted Scottish Protestants in Ulster to civilize us wild Catholics, carved up the island when we had the audacity to want independence, and then kept the six counties in Northern Ireland filled with enough Protestants to vote the way London wanted.
The peace walls between the Protestants and Catholics went up in Belfast to keep us from killing each other.
And even twenty-seven years after the Good Friday Agreement, when paramilitaries on both sides agreed to lay down their arms, they still lock the gates at night.
The royal family has always been the most prominent symbol of English oppression.
And here’s me, a working-class Catholic from Belfast, apparently about to get an assignment that involves investigating a threat against one of them.
If that’s not cosmic comedy, I don’t know what is.
“We’ve had some intelligence suggesting Prince Nicholas is the next target,” Thornton says. “Therefore, if the sleeper agent is anywhere in RaSP, the likelihood is they’re in his team.”
I stare at Prince Nicholas’s perfect smile in the photo.
“Why him?” I ask.
