Lyon remained a fugitive.
The International Court of Justice had assumed jurisdiction and Great Britain was chosen as the venue for the trial, with the United States prosecuting. A Justice Department team had been sent over to handle the matter, which included Malone. He’d been at his hotel, readying himself for trial, when men with badges appeared and politely asked him to come with them. They’d allowed a call to Atlanta and he spoke with his boss, Stephanie Nelle, who said that she wanted him to go with them, too.
But she’d offered no explanations.
Victoria settled back in her wheelchair, her right hand trembling. “My body is failing me, Mr. Malone. I am eighty-two years old and the one thing that keeps me alive is the realization that, after I’m gone, my son will succeed me. Richard is our most poignant disappointment. Like parents throughout the world with a troubled child, I wonder where we went wrong.”
Malone was surprised by her frank admission.
“I have tried,” Victoria said, “to convey to my son the importance of his position, but he remains resolute in defiance. Being a monarch in this century is difficult enough—without erecting artificial barriers. My son fails to understand this.”
A quotation came to mind, so he said, “His will is not his own. For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, carve for himself, for on his choice depends the sanity and health of this whole state.”
Victoria gave a slight nod. “Shakespeare wrote Laertes’ speech with great eloquence. Ophelia should have taken heed. So should my son. Thankfully, our grandson is more mature than his father. Albert will be our saving grace.”
Now he understood. “So when an infamous newspaper publisher mentioned that whatever he wanted to discuss concerned Albert, your attention was piqued?”
She nodded again, a slight bob of the head, her neck muscles surely restricted by the disease. “He is our joy.”
“And our hope,” James said.
Malone turned toward the Duke of Edinburgh. “What’s the problem?”
James motioned across the room. “William will explain.”
He turned toward the desk.
“The Prince of Wales, as I’m sure you know, stays in the press. Over the past nine years I have charted the reports from every London newspaper. That survey shows the Globe printed well over 70 percent of the initial stories about Richard. Now, that could simply be from hard work, luck—”
“Or a little inside help.”
“Precisely,” James said.
“And the dead man? He published the Globe?”
“He was its founder and owner.”
“Have you spoken to Richard about this?”
James shook his head. “It would do no good. He could not care less about any perceptions, problems, or embarrassments.”
Malone sensed something in the prince’s tone. “What are you not saying?”
“It is our daughter,” Victoria said. “Eleanor is an ambitious woman. We fear that she might have something to do with all of this.”
That shocked him. “What would be gained by disgracing her brother? She’s far removed from the succession.”
“As long as Albert is safe,” James said.
“You think he might be in danger?”
“We don’t know what to think,” James made clear. “We hope this is all simply the paranoia of two old people with difficult children. But William is not so sure. Neither am I anymore. After the tapes incident, my mind was changed.”
He recalled the furor that had erupted a few months back when audiotapes of Richard’s private telephone conversations surfaced in the media. Calls made to various women, some married, others with less-than-stellar reputations. The conversations were juvenile and sexually explicit, displaying an amazing immaturity—which the press had exploited.
“Did you ever discover who recorded them?” he asked.
James shook his head. “They tried to blame palace security, but no one here made them. The conversations were all on open, mobile phones, so they could have been recorded by anyone. Bloody embarrassing for our family. But, as with everything else, Richard seemed unaffected.”
“The disturbing thing about those conversations,” William said, “was that they occurred over an extended period, on different mobile lines, in different parts of the country. How did someone happen to be tuned to the precise frequency at the precise moment?”
“What did your security people say?”
“They offered no explanation, and to this day we have no idea who made those tapes, nor who forwarded them to the press.”
“Let me guess,” Malone said. “The Globe had an exclusive.”
William nodded. “The source was, as always, ‘unidentified palace insiders.’ Just like in today’s Globe. A front-page story about Richard and the daughter of one of the more vocal lords in Parliament. Pictures and all. A grand romp he had last weekend. Richard may be reckless and foolish, but he does not invite the press to follow him. Yet they were somehow alerted to that liaison.”
“But why is his sister suspect?” Malone asked.
“My daughter,” Victoria said, “tries hard to convince me that she is a good child. But she married into an ambitious family. Nigel Yourstone says he is a friend of the realm, yet his son is hardly the man I would have thought Eleanor would marry. Her decision to do so has always puzzled me. But the boy was fair born, of the right lineage, and pronounced fertile. That is all I can require of her choice in a husband.”
“Our daughter,” James said, “is far more devious and capable than her brother.”
“You think she’s the leak?”
Neither parent answered him.
Finally, James said, “We simply don’t know.”
Silence passed between them.