The low rumble of distant thunder woke Grey. Dr. Walsh’s voice filled the room as if he was still at the Aintree race ground. Julia sat cross-legged on the bed with a croissant in her hand, watching Dr. Karen Walsh and Chief Inspector Khan’s press conference on the television. Noticing her husband rousing, Julia leaned over and kissed him.
"It’s so good to have you home again, my dear Thomas, OBE," she said with a smile, smearing buttered pastry on his lips.
“Good morning, darling.”
Grey watched, paying little interest to Dr. Walsh’s remarks or Chief Inspector Khan’s assurances. The investigation had become a dead lead, dulling his interest. Their tranquil morning routine was soon interrupted when the twin girls burst into the room in pink fluffy robes, scattering colorful toys about as Julia resumed eating her croissant.
“Daddy’s going to the king’s castle!” they squealed, clambering onto the bed.
“That’s right, I am—Buckingham Palace,” Grey said patiently, amused by their enthusiasm.
Grey relaxed back onto the mattress with his daughters climbing all over him, listening to their high-pitched chatter, pretending to be annoyed, though secretly overjoyed by their energy.
“Alright, my loves. Daddy needs to get dressed now.”
He scooped up the giggling girls; placing them on the floor. “Why don’t you go play while Daddy gets ready?”
Once the twins scampered off in a flurry of flying blonde pigtails, Grey put on a brave face, pushing aside his doubts. He squeezed into a too-tight suit, seeing wrinkles feathering from the corners of his eyes and gray strands amidst his dark hair—signs of aging he had somehow missed in front of the mirror. He sighed, the weight of the years settling on his shoulders—until Julia’s hug brought him back to the present. Julia’s smile spread from ear to ear, and her eyes danced with gladness.
“You’ll be the talk of London Inspector!”
If only she knew the truth, he thought bitterly. Grey studied his joyful family feeling guilty. All he wanted to do was look into the monarch’s eyes and receive the truth that tormented him. Then maybe he could finally lay his ghosts to rest, instead of this empty charade of celebrations and accolades. Slipping into his long flappy leather jacket, he hugged the giggling twins tight.
“Daddy will be home soon,” he said gently.
He kissed Julia goodbye, wishing them a fun day together. Julia smiled, but Grey could tell she wished they could accompany him to the ceremony. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Part of him hoped to slip away unnoticed once inside Buckingham Palace. He stepped through the door into the chilly September air, giving a parting smile and wave. A black Sedan waited at the curb, its dark windows signifying the institutional anonymity that characterized his working life. Grey willingly resumed this role, once more donning the mask of a public servant as one might an old coat, comfortable yet outgrown. Lingering on the threshold, he looked back at his family home before closing the door and stepping into the car. Detective Turner leaned forward from the backseat and clapped Grey on the shoulder.
“Well look at you, all dressed up in your clobber, Guv! It’s about time, one of us gets an award. I could murder a pint or six after the week we’ve had, dodging all those stuffed-shirt bureaucrats giving us grief.”
“I understand where you’re coming from, Turner. Hopefully, today’s event will provide a welcome change of pace.”
The visor between the front and the back seats began to roll down. Firstly, Grey noticed the man’s stiff posture and pressed uniform, and then the driver’s eyes appeared in the rearview mirror. The man briefly eyeballed Grey before turning his attention back to the road. His eyes were almond-shaped; Asian in fact.
“I’m afraid No More Oil protesters are blocking the direct route to Buckingham Palace. I believe an alternate route should avoid delays for us.”
“That sounds wise,” replied Grey evenly. “We certainly wouldn’t want to become entangled in the demonstrations.”
“I’ll take the Ring Road.”
“The last thing we need is to be late for this bloody ceremony,” Detective Turner chimed in.
The driver raised the blacked-out partition. Grey noted the subtle scents clinging to the luxurious leather interior; polished wood, faint cleaning products, and the subtle vibration of the powerful engine humming beneath. As they drove, Grey took in the neoclassical buildings grouped around them. Buildings from the Georgian and Victorian periods blinked by, their tall columns topped with gold and their pointed white porticos disappearing into the haze of the distance. Grey then laid out the full extent of MI6’s involvement in the secret meeting—how even the PM herself had made an unscheduled appearance. Turner sat frozen, gawking at Grey with dawning comprehension. Every new disclosure; warned of the vast web they had unwittingly wandered into. The Sedan wound through narrow alleys with decaying tenements. Boarded-up windows from buildings, past their prime, glared like sightless eyes. Crumbling smokestacks in disrepair protruded into the colorless sky from graffitied buildings.
“You know what, Turner, is it me or are we just a little bit further off the beaten track more than we should be?”
“I have to admit, guv. It’s been a while since I’ve been this far into the neglected parts of London. May I suggest you tell the driver he may be lost?”
The car lurched to a sudden, bone-jarring stop, throwing Grey and Turner forward in their seats. Grey’s heart leaped into his throat upon impact.
“Jesus Christ, bloody foreign drivers,” Turner shouted under his breath.
Grey banged on the partition. “Hello, will you be bloody careful?”
The driver’s voice crackled through the intercom, sounding oddly detached. “I apologize for the sudden delay. It seems we have blown a tire.”
Grey frowned, studying the tarmac outside the window. There was no visible sign of a puncture, no telltale signs of hissing or escaping air. It all seemed a little too convenient. The divider lowered; the driver’s dark eyes stared back at them in the rearview mirror a little too long. An unspoken tension saturated the car.
“My uncle’s restaurant is close by. He has a spare tire we can use.”
Though the offer seemed helpful on the surface, the nape of Grey’s neck prickled with alarm. Turner scrutinized the driver suspiciously. “Who do you work for?”
“What do you want? This is a trap, right?” Grey inquired.
“Inspector Grey, it is not by accident that we have stopped here. We have been watching you.”
Grey felt like somebody had just walked over his grave; his suspicions confirmed. He was deeper than he had realized. Grey and Turner exchanged a tense look, both aware they were stepping into unknown territory. The driver’s cryptic response only added to their sense of unease.
“Who are you working for?” Grey demanded.
“I can only tell you at my uncle’s restaurant!”
“What happens if we don’t want to go?”
“Inspector Grey, you are not being held hostage, I can assure you. If you choose not to come with me, I will drive you to Buckingham Palace. However, if you do decide to come, I possess information on Sanderson’s death.”
Grey, weighing his options, looked at Turner, who was equally uncertain.
“What do you think, Turner?”
“Well, I’m game if you are, Guv. We’ve still got some time to kill.”
“Drive then. Make sure we arrive in one piece. If we end up like chop suey, I’ll find ya,” Grey warned.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you to your destination safely.”
Immediately after, the creepy Asian driver accelerated, leaving Grey and Turner to ponder about the journey ahead. Departing from the outer fringes of London, they drove through the narrow streets of Soho. The rain beat down on the pavement, creating a steady, rhythmic pattern. Neon signs of sex shops and adult cinemas glowed a garish light over the pathways. In doorways, groups of men huddled together in seedy storefronts. The sharp scents of cannabis mingled with the smell of Caribbean food.
“Do you recognize this place, Turner?”
“I used to frequent these places when I was a bobby, after work in my twenties.”
“Knowing you, Turner, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Do you not remember your stag do, guv?”
Turner was referring to the night of debauchery that had taken place before Grey’s wedding. “Point taken, Turner. Let’s just hope we don’t have a repeat performance. Julia is still none the wiser.”
The executive Sedan came to a stop outside a dingy, rundown building. “We’re here,” the driver announced. Grey and Turner stepped out of the car and saw the driver for the first time. He was a small Asian man, impeccably dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform too large for his slender frame.
“I want your name and identification. I’m a serving member of Scotland Yard.”
The driver complied, producing a driving license that read ‘Lo Chen’.
“Lo Chen,” Grey repeated. “I’m watching you. Make no mistake, I’ll be reporting everything that happens here if you fuck us over.”
"I understand, Inspector. But please, there is much you do not know."
"We’ll see about that. Keep your guard up, Turner. Something isn’t right."
As Turner walked around the car, an enormous rat scurried across his polished black shoes. “Bloody hell!”
He shook his foot in disgust at the surrounding decay and urban blight. Chen brought them to a rusty metal shutter at a closed shop front. A deteriorating sign above read ‘Uncle’s Chinese Restaurant’ in discolored lettering. He heaved open the shutter to a dingy interior. They followed Chen through the deserted kitchen, assaulted by the smells of stale oil and spices. Planted on the wall was an aluminous blue fly trap, its pull-out tray overflowing with dead bugs.
“Well, this is cozy.”
“I think I’d rather stick to fish and chips from now on, Guv.”
“In here, please,” said Chen.
The door looked like some sort of walk-in pantry. “By all means, Chen, you go first,” Grey said.
“Very well then.”
Chen tracked down some steps into the basement, passing cardboard boxes full of cooking equipment. Grime-ridden tiles covered the floors with cobwebs clinging to wooden support beams. Chen kicked a stack of empty cardboard boxes out of his way, opening up a walkway to a walk-in freezer at the far end.
“You will understand the need for secrecy in a minute or so; please follow me.”
Chen unclasped the heavy-duty lock on the walk-in freezer, releasing the suction from the vinyl seals around the edges. He entered, with Turner close behind.
“Everything in here is just for show,” Chen said, pointing towards the Peking ducks hanging from the butcher’s hooks. Turner placed his hands over the breasts of one of the ducks.
“Well, look at that. They are made of plastic. You do have all your ducks in a row, don’t you, Chen?”
“Keep your wits about you, Turner.”
Chen slid open a secret compartment in the back wall. Grey and Turner ducked under the hanging ducks like boxers dodging a speedball before stepping into a spacious, soundproofed room. They halted in astonishment. Groups of Asian men in neat shirts congregated before banks of computer monitors. Cables and wires ran along a spotless floor in orderly bundles. Men spoke to each other in Mandarin. Some monitored live footage from streets and businesses around the city, while others scanned data and documents. Images of government officials and political attaches scraped across the screens. In the center of the room, a large circular table was covered in detailed maps of London, marked with locations. Dozens of photos were pinned to a board, with individuals being monitored or recruited as the most likely assets. Cool air pumped from fans, cooling down rows of data servers and network switches.
“This place puts our setup at the Yard to shame. Can I request the next budget, guv?”
Grey stared in disbelief. “What the bloody hell is this place?”
Before Chen could respond, the door to the intelligence cell opened from another entrance. A stocky, stern-faced man in a black overcoat entered alongside an elderly Chinese man, who turned to Chen and asked in perfect English.
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“Is this the inspector you mentioned?”
“That it is, Uncle.”
The Chinese elder flashed a smile at Grey, holding out his hand. Grey briefly acknowledged the Chinese gentleman with a polite nod, though his focus remained on the man in the black overcoat.
“Victor Petrov. What a surprise!”
“Inspector Grey, you seem to turn up in unusual places. Do not be alarmed. This is an informal meeting with no documents to sign this time.”
“Who’s this then, guv? A friend of yours?”
“Not exactly. This is Viktor Petrov, Russia’s special envoy to the UK.”
“The Russian ambassador himself? What’s he doing here, then?”
“Good question. I’d imagine Petrov here has some unofficial business to discuss. Am I wrong, Ambassador?”
“You have a keen intuition. I do have a matter of great urgency to discuss. One that requires your discretion.”
“You’ll forgive my confusion. Last time we spoke, your government wanted me to back off from my investigation.”
“My Asian colleagues here felt the development warranted a more personal exchange of information. My superiors were curious enough to grant me leave. Inspector, shall we proceed with the briefing?”
“Then, by all means, brief away.”
Chen gave a respectful bow to the old man. “Uncle was instrumental in establishing this safe house. You should listen to what he has to say.”
“Please, come,” Uncle said with a gentle smile.
“Let us discuss things over a cup of green tea. We have very little time. The information you seek surrounding Chief Inspector Sanderson’s death is a dangerous matter, Inspector, with implications that go far beyond this room. But you deserve to know.”
Grey and Turner took a position facing Petrov at the large circular table, declining Uncle’s offer of hospitality. Chen left for a workstation, putting on headphones.
"Forgive my impatience, but what are you saying about Sanderson’s death? I’m due at Buckingham Palace in two hours."
Uncle poured green tea for himself and Petrov from a bone china ceramic pot, then he sat back as if he was preparing for a leisurely chat. “Sanderson was murdered by a group already on our intelligence radar.”
“Who ordered the hit and why?”
“Because, Detective Turner. He was about to get too close for comfort in the eyes of the people who lie at the heart of your investigation.”
"Which people?"
“Notable figures at the highest levels of British politics and the Royal Household—that’s your who and why.”
"Do you have solid evidence of this?"
"Surveillance logs, financial records, and photographs—all documented."
“Then let’s see the evidence, shall we?” Grey said.
"Of course."
Uncle walked over to the corner of the room, opening the zip on a laptop bag. Then he placed a snazzy laptop on the table, typing in a password. Grey and Turner curiously watched Uncle insert a drive, clicking through a folder titled ‘Sanderson’s Surveillance’. He turned the laptop to face them while pressing play on a video file. The footage began with time-stamped shots of Sanderson’s estate.
“It’s the later stages of the footage that you’ll find of some interest!”
Shapes emerged from the dawn darkness, creeping toward the bridge. A grim tension settled over Grey and Turner. Uncle narrated what the drones had captured in a clinical, detached manner. Grey stared, unable to deny the brutal reality of Sanderson’s murder. The merciless beating of his former mentor sent a surge of rage through him. Then the screen went blank. Grey was flabbergasted.
“He never had a chance!”
Turner’s bewildered expression mirrored Grey’s disbelief. “Something’s not adding up. How did you get this video? Who are the men attacking Sanderson? And why does the footage cut off right after his murder?”
Petrov smirked. “Let’s just say our operatives have creative ways of accessing your security systems. As for the footage? Who knows?”
“You hacked into the British government’s surveillance feeds. You looked me in the eye while having this evidence all along?”
“Suffice to say, Inspector, we have gained the ability to monitor certain surveillance feeds, including those captured during Sanderson’s murder.”
“Cut the smug act, Petrov. I know you’re playing with me. Who is your source?”
“Be patient, Inspector. We all seek the truth that will benefit us all. Even your formidable Prime Minister, Aurelia Ironheart, has a stake in the satellite technology contracts.”
Petrov placed two photographs on the table—one of a man, the other showing several figures resembling those in the video.
“This man,” said Petrov, pointing to the photograph.
“Is your suspect in the Royal Box at the Grand National? He heads up an organization called the Bloodies, a secret society that operates under the royal family’s protection. This organization carries out sensitive operations on behalf of the King.”
Grey checked the man’s profile. “Do you have his name?”
“That is something I cannot give you. We have been trying to reach him for years, but he just slips through the cracks. The royal family is almost impenetrable.”
“Well, you’re not much help, are you? Where are your famous KGB tactics that everyone spouts on about? I have a whole montage of photos just like this one in my office.”
“Hang on, guv, let’s try a different tack here.”
“You’re wasting your time, Turner. They have nothing new to offer us here!”
“You believe these Bloodies, whoever they are, attacked and murdered Sanderson on the King’s orders? It kind of makes sense why His Majesty knew who this bloke was in the royal box.”
“Detective Turner, you are on the right track. Too bad your stubborn colleague doesn’t have the same foresight.”
Petrov pointed a finger at Grey. “It pains me to be the bearer of such dark truths. But as an outsider looking in, the depths of corruption I have witnessed within your country is truly disheartening,” Petrov lowered his voice for effect.
“The media likes to paint Russia as the villain, but let’s be honest—your royal family makes the Italian mafia look like Boy Scouts.”
“I can definitely echo Victor’s sentiments,” Uncle said. “China gets a bad reputation from all this Western propaganda.”
Grey had listened to just about enough of Uncle’s zen bullshit and Petrov’s riddled explanations. “Piss off, both of you; your hands are just as dirty as everyone else’s!”
Grey continued, making exaggerated air quotes with his fingers.
“How do I know this inflammatory evidence is truthfully obtained and not entirely fabricated to ‘push the narrative’, like that bumbling fool Roland Blackwell would say in one of his stupid storylines! It could all be part of some plot intended to deceive me!”
“Very well, Inspector. I have another hand to play; do you play blackjack?”
“Enough with the James Bond routine, Petrov. Just tell me why I’m here.”
Like a deck of cards, Petrov laid out several satellite images on the table of a sprawling compound, with submarines moored in massive docks.
“This is one of His Majesty’s secret bases. Our artificial intelligence, as you call it, suggests the King has been developing something there, something nefarious.”
Uncle looked at his watch. “Petrov. You must finish your explanation now—we are running out of time.”
Reaching into his pocket, Uncle pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Grey. Grey examined it; it was a photograph of him and Turner leaving a crime scene earlier in the week.
“How did you get this?”
“We’ve been watching you closely. Our observers have been monitoring your actions. We wanted to determine if we could trust you.”
“So you’ve been stalking us?”
“Surveillance, Inspector. Also, for your protection.”
“It’s bloody creepy if you ask me,” Turner said.
“How long have you been following us?”
“Long enough to realize you’re a man of principle. One who prefers justice over politics.”
“You haven’t said how long?”
“Inspector Grey, we have been monitoring your investigation closely. Based on the psychological profile of your character, we knew you would pursue Sanderson’s killers relentlessly, regardless of the risk. We have evidence implicating these people close to the king. But getting hard evidence requires access to Buckingham Palace, which is almost impossible without detection.”
“Oh! let me take a wild guess. You want me to infiltrate Buckingham Palace under the guise of receiving my OBE? And become a spy working for both the Chinese and Russian governments?”
“It would be more of an association with common interests involved.”
“Common interests? More like fulfilling your own agendas while hanging me out to dry as a traitor to the United Kingdom. Pull the other one, Uncle!”
“Unfortunately, we lack the positional advantage of someone in your unique position. There’s an old Chinese proverb: ‘The reed that bends in the wind stands straight again.’ Like us, you see the truth, Inspector Grey, but you've been kept in the shade. In time, you’ll bend no further."
Grey’s principles were being put to the test. He knew it too. Uncle had done his psychological profiling well, cleverly manipulating him in his quest for justice.
“You’ve sparked my curiosity, Uncle. I’ll give you that.”
Grey watched Turner’s body tense like he was about to be swallowed by his chair.
“Guv, this is getting way too deep for me. Sanderson’s gone now. There is nothing we can do to bring him back. Let’s just go to the award ceremony. Then we can have our paid holiday!”
“Turner, just hear them out first; this could be a new lead. If it’s too risky, we’ll leave it. I promise.”
“Boss, are you seriously considering this? We are way over our heads here.”
“Just hold on a minute, Turner.”
Petrov and Uncle could feel Grey being reeled in towards them like a fish on a hook. Grey’s voice was calm, but firm. “I need to understand exactly what you would ask of me?”
“Lo Chen, please come to the table. And show us the logistics for our guests.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Chen came over with a pair of tweezers, carrying an ornate red velvet wedding ring case, placing it in front of Grey. He pried it open, presenting a small, clear plastic bag. Inside was a translucent filament of some kind. That you would be hard pushed to see without a magnifying glass. Like he was holding a pair of chopsticks, he lifted the bag with the tweezers for Grey to see.
“In this bag is an implantable micro-tracking device. It’s pretty cool, right?”
“Yeah, cosmic,” Grey said dryly.
“Chen, can you get to the point? Time is of the essence,” said Petrov impatiently.
“It’s a compact camera module, microphone, and proximity sensor all rolled into one. It’s designed to activate upon contact with human skin. Once it’s implanted and activated, it will transmit real-time encrypted audiovisual data to our secure remote servers, allowing us to passively observe and record whatever the carrier experiences from a first-person vantage point.”
“You want me to plant this device on the King?” Grey asked skeptically.
Chen tweezed into the bag, removing the thin, transparent filament. “Wait until you see this in action!”
He peeled off the sticky adhesive, then applied the filament to a plaster on his finger. Instantly, the screens lit up, displaying data patterns and a live point-of-view feed from his perspective. Grey and Turner watched as the camera zoomed in on their faces on one screen, bio read-out graphs fluctuated. On another, Chen’s disembodied voice rang through the speakers, further demonstrating the audio recording capabilities.
“Blimey, this really is James Bond stuff!” Turner said jokingly.
“As you can see, the tracker is fully operational. The king wouldn’t even know if he had been planted or not.”
Uncle leaned closer, reeling in his catch. “During the ceremony, we believe His Majesty may reveal something important to you. No doubt aware of your close friendship with the late Chief Inspector Sanderson. Out of guilt, he may wish to offer you a gesture of consolation—a handshake, a pat on the shoulder, or a few tactful words of sympathy. Such a moment could be the chance to discreetly plant the micro-tracking device without arousing suspicion.”
Grey’s expression remained neutral; contemplating Uncle’s proposal. If the king was involved in Sanderson’s death, would his conscience reveal itself somehow during their interaction? But infiltrating Buckingham Palace and deceiving the monarch was full-on treason. The whole table was staring at him now.
“Excuse me, this is all well and good, and your toy is very impressive, but do you know how unusually irregular it would be to even think of shaking hands with the King? There are strict protocols that everyone has to follow at these kinds of events.”
“There is no pressure for you to proceed. All we ask is that you remain observant and alert during the ceremony. If the chance for a discreet surveillance opportunity arises, we request that you should consider taking it,” Uncle said.
“Turner, what do you think?”
“Guv, you know I will be there with you, but I would leave this one well alone.”
Grey considered his options carefully. On one side stood honor and duty, demanding justice for his late mentor. On the other hand, there lurked treachery and danger. Grey leveled his full attention at Uncle and Petrov.
"If I don’t make contact or back out, I walk away. I need your assurance that nothing will come back to haunt me. Is that clear?"
“Inspector Grey, if nothing happens, you’ll get your OBE, go home a hero, and we’ll pretend this never happened,” Uncle said evenly.
“Very well,” Grey said finally. “I’ll take the device with me. But make no mistake, your countries are just as implicated in this rotten sleaze as mine. Chen, take us to Buckingham Palace. You can show me how this device of yours functions in the car.”
“It has been quite an interesting encounter,” Uncle said. “Remember the reed that straightens in the wind. Find your true nature, Inspector Grey.”
“Uncle, save your Chinese crap for someone else. Petrov, I hope we do not meet again; it was just as unpleasant as the last time we met. Turner, let’s go.”
“Nice to see you again, Grey; I’ll catch you on the way down!”
The rain had cleared, and sunlight warmed their faces as they stepped onto the street. Grey squinted at the rows of derelict cafes and shops across the road. He probed the faceless passersby. Only when he was sure that they weren’t being followed did he open the back door of the Sedan. Turner slipped into the hot leather seat beside him, a crease of worry marking the lines of his face.
“You sure about this, guv? Going into the lion’s den and all that?”
“Turner, I would not put us in unnecessary trouble. Don’t worry.”
Grey tapped on the divider window, garnering Lo Chen’s attention. “When exactly am I going to get a technical demonstration of your tech, Chen?”
Chen checked out Grey in the rearview mirror, his dark eyes betraying little. “I will show you upon arrival. What matters now is that you agree to be our representative.”
“You know the deal, Chen.”
“Very well. It is your choice, as promised.”
Chen took them out of Soho. Both men sat in contemplative silence. Decaying urban streets gave way to grand boulevards lined with stately mansions in Kensington. Government buildings passed by. All too soon, the gates of Buckingham Palace came into view. Grey primped and preened. Turner sprayed himself with deodorant.
“Let’s get it over with, Turner.”
