a premium paid for pretty blondes, of which Zakhar seemed to have more than its fair share—was a completely different prospect, and Alec could see all too easily how it could be true. Especially if the Russian Mafia—the Bratva, or Brotherhood, as it was euphemistically called—was involved.
If the king was right, that meant he was walking into a hornet’s nest when he took over as RSO tomorrow, because he’d have to start an investigation without any idea how far the corruption went. Without any idea who could be trusted...and who couldn’t.
That’s just dandy, Alec thought but didn’t say. He’d long ago learned the control diplomatic protocol demanded of his tongue. Thanks ever so much, Your Majesty, for handing me an assignment right in the middle of a secret war zone.
“Who knows of this?” he asked the king.
“Who knows that I know? Only my closest, most trusted advisers. The queen, of course, and my cousin,” he said, indicating the man who sat so impassively next to him. “Two of my bodyguards, who were with me when I was first informed. And the three policemen who immediately brought this to Colonel Marianescu’s attention, as they should have—this is a threat to Zakharian national security. And now you.
“To the best of my knowledge, no one at the embassy has any idea. That is why I allowed the world to think I was merely acceding to my sister’s insistence I do something to help you, Special Agent Jones, after the unfortunate incident in the Middle East. If I had requested the US replace the current RSO for any other reason, suspicions would have been raised. Suspicions I had no intention of raising.” The king smiled that faint smile again, a smile Alec was starting to understand. “Everything dovetailed nicely.”
Alec nodded, following the logic, and his admiration for the king rose a notch. He’d heard a lot about him from Princess Mara—some of which was secret from most of the world—and of course he’d studied up on Zakhar, its politics and its king when he’d received his assignment here. But he hadn’t expected such astute political awareness, such adroit handling of a situation that might have stymied a lesser man.
He thought about ways and means, his mind racing. Then he turned to the secretary of state. “Since we have no idea how far the corruption goes, I don’t dare trust anyone currently at the embassy—not even the ambassador. Not yet. So I think the best approach is to ask the agency to lend a hand in the investigation.”
“The agency?” The secretary of state looked doubtful, even though the agency had been created in secret after 9/11 to do what neither the FBI nor the CIA had been able to do before that tragedy, and had quickly established itself within the secret confines of the US government.
“It wouldn’t be the first time the State Department and the Bureau of Diplomatic Security asked for their help,” Alec reminded him. “The DSS borrowed Trace McKinnon from them when Princess Mara started teaching in Colorado, remember?”
“Wouldn’t the agency’s presence raise the alarm? Isn’t that exactly what you’re trying to avoid?”
Alec shook his head. “Not if we ask the agency for McKinnon. I’ve worked with him before, and frankly, he’s the best of the best. He’s already in Zakhar, with a perfectly legitimate reason for being here totally unrelated to any kind of investigation.” He nodded to himself, seeing the plan take shape in his mind. “We’re friends. He’s related to the king by marriage. It would lend credence to the rumor the king pulled strings to get me here for personal reasons. Suspicions would be lulled, not raised.”
He looked at the king, almost excited at the prospect of working with McKinnon again, even on something as troubling as this. “I think that’s it, Your Majesty. The perfect solution. The agency’s the best at this kind of covert investigation. And they’re authorized by Congress to act both within and outside US borders, so we wouldn’t be overstepping any legal boundaries. That’ll be critical when it comes time to prosecute these guys. I know that’s secondary as far as you’re concerned, but—”
“But it is of prime importance to your government,” the king answered. “That I understand.” He glanced over at the secretary of state. “I have no objections to this plan, Mr. Secretary. Do you?”
* * *
“Security in the cathedral must be tight,” Captain Zale told the queen’s security detail in the conference room on the third floor of the palace, where they had assembled. “I cannot stress this enough. Tight yet covert. The king’s security detail will be there, of course, alongside us and the men newly assigned to guard the crown prince. But the eyes of Zakhar will be upon the christening—which is being broadcast on television for the first time—not to mention much of the rest of the world. The king wishes nothing to disrupt the ceremony or detract from the religious solemnity of the occasion.”
He cleared his throat. “If possible, of course. To that end, silencers for all security participants was considered but rejected for a variety of reasons, including the difficulty of covert carry with a silencer, and the fact that it changes the balance of a gun—not something senior leadership wanted to risk. Questions?”
Angelina had questions, but she wasn’t going to ask them yet. No matter how much she and the two other women on the team tried to fit in, the men still resented it if the women spoke first in group meetings like this. She’d learned to pick her battles. She glanced left and right, and wasn’t disappointed.
“What precautions are being taken?” one man asked.
Another man threw out, “Who is responsible for advance security on the cathedral?”
“Will the guests have to pass through a metal detector as they enter the cathedral?” a third man queried. “And if so, who will be monitoring it?”
Captain Zale dealt with these questions and several others, explaining so everyone knew exactly who was responsible for what, and who would be stationed where.
There was a short silence. Then, “With so many security details there to guard the royal family, the potential exists for fractionalization instead of us operating as a cohesive whole,” Angelina said quietly. “What is being done to prevent this?”
Captain Zale cast her a quick nod of approval. “Good question, Mateja.” He faced the entire room. “There will be a dry run in the cathedral on Saturday,” he said. “A dress rehearsal, as it were. Everyone who is not on duty that day is expected to be in attendance. This will help lay down clear lines of communication between all three security details.”
His eyes narrowed. “Remember, this is not a pissing contest,” he said crudely. “The king’s men will be there, and naturally they think they are superior. That they are in command. We are the queen’s men, lesser beings in their eyes. This is not true, and I have it on the best authority—the king himself. We have been handpicked by him to guard the queen against any and every threat. So do not let the attitude of the king’s men distract you. Let them think they are superior. We know the truth. And we—not they—will ensure a successful outcome. Any further questions?” Silence held sway. “You are dismissed.”
* * *
Angelina skimmed down the wide, marble stairs of the grand staircase, her feet barely touching the carpeted treads. When she was a little girl her father had complained that Angelina never walked anywhere, that she was always in a hurry to get where she was going, and it was still true. Very little had changed about Angelina since her childhood.
Today was actually an off-duty day for her— although like everyone else
