Prince William: At Olympics 2012

By Mike Scantlebury

Prince William of England, second in line to the throne, is asked by his grandmother to represent her at the Olympic events happening in the North of England in 2012. The Prince is pleased at the request, appearing in public as the Queen's representative, but then less than happy when people start shooting at him and threatening his life in a myriad of unpleasant ways. Then Melia arrives. Amelia Hartliss, or 'Heartless' as she is known, has been sent from the local Regional Office of WSB, the country's foremost anti-terrorism unit. She is a professional, but in the weeks spent in the Prince's company, she finds her nature as a young and passionate woman is tested to the limit. She is attracted to the young man, and is surprised to find that the feeling may be mutual. As the terrorists close in, the two dissimilar people have to work together to survive, forging a bond that is more than their duty demands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326756635

Book preview

Prince William: At Olympics 2012

PRINCE  WILLIAM

(at Olympics 2012)

by

Mike Scantlebury

Amelia Hartliss Mysteries: Book 03

ISBN:  978-1-326-75663-5

c. Mike Scantlebury 2011

Standard Copyright applies, which means that if you steal any trace of this work from me, I will send Amelia Hartliss round to your house and she will take your salad drawer and all its contents.

This edition put in place by Mike Scantlebury

CHAPTER  ONE

Is that smoke on the pitch? Melia asked, concerned.

One of the Manchester United officials moved up closer to the large picture window of the Executive Box and stared through the double glazing.

It's the Stretford End, he informed her. Can't see it very clearly from here. Too far away. He stepped back.

We need a man at the scene, Melia muttered, reaching for her radio. It could be a fire. We need to know. We don't want a panic to start.

She snapped on the radio, giving out a general call. Greg Snopes came back almost immediately. That was good: Snopes was one of her most trusted assistants.

I'm on your right, he said, his voice crackling. I can get a view if I move forward. I'll get back to you.

Melia surveyed the room, and her eyes lit on her main responsibility that day.

Your Royal Highness, she snapped. You need to move back from the window.

She turned to the club official nearest to her. Bring the shields down, she ordered. Now.

The man hurried towards the small control panel by the entrance door. He flicked a switch, and a second set of windows crashed into place, beyond the first panels. They  had a coating on the outside; it meant that no one could now see in. The room was suddenly dimmer, although it was still possible to see out.

It was fortunate that nobody would be able to see in, Melia was thinking. Nobody. Not even a sniper.

The first club official, a man called Munch, turned to Melia with concern. He was a small man with wide shoulders and a shaved head. Melia towered over him, being tall and willowy. She looked down on the fierce terrier. If he hadn't been wearing the smart blazer of Manchester United football club, and the club tie, he would have looked like any tattooed thug from the terraces. In fact, that was probably where he had come from.

And the doors, he snapped, his face tight.

Seal the door, Melia commanded, and the locks clicked into place.

Munch snorted. It can't be a fire, he declared. The thermal detectors would have found it by now, and the Control Room would have notified us. So, it's something else. Something else entirely.

Melia was gratified. The last thing she wanted was a fire breaking out on the terraces. They had sixty thousand people on site, and if they all tried heading for the exits, at the same time, there would be chaos. It had happened before, at other football grounds. That was one reason that all-seating stadia had been demanded, and installed. Manchester United was proud of its ground, tirelessly improved over the years. It was now truly 'state of the art', and able to play host to even the biggest fixtures.

Melia surveyed the room again. There were eight individuals present, including herself. Three of them were wearing the red blazer of the football club, and were there to help the guests. One 'guest' was Melia, heading up Royal security for the day. Then there was the Prince and his assistant. The other two individuals were craggy old men in suits, way past retirement age; they had been selected from a local competition, the 'Hearts of Salford', for people who had made a lasting contribution to the city. Their prize was to spend the match in the Executive Box, with the Royal guest. Their qualification was that they had been volunteers for the past forty years, apparently, at the world-famous 'Salford Lads Club', a nearby institution.

They looked nervous, as if reminded of the last war.

Prince William strolled over, laid back as ever. He was calm in a crisis, hardly moved at all by the potential dangers that were alerting Melia and spurring her into action.

Look, I know it's your job - he said, but really, is there a problem?

The club official looked concerned. Play has stopped, he informed them.

The small group moved back towards the main window and stared down. Sure enough, the players were being escorted from the pitch by a line of police people, their blue uniforms standing out against the pure green of the turf. The police closed in behind the players as they filed into the tunnel, and formed a protective wall to stop anyone following them.

This included the linesmen and the referee.

Looks like the match officials have been abandoned, the club official said, annoyance clearly showing in his voice.

They're on the pitch! a voice said.

Melia turned. It was Kat, one of the Prince's many aides. A pleasant young woman, medium height but thin, with a sharp, geometric haircut. Not prone to panic, Melia had observed, but this time, the young lady was starting to fret.

Melia walked over to be close to Prince William, and kept her voice low and urgent. Look, I know we don't know each other well, she observed. For me, this is a one-off duty. My unit has been designated to protect you today, something about my team being based in this area: the North West of England is our patch, and the place we know best. We have local knowledge and I'm asking you to respect that.

I respect your professionalism, the Prince said tartly, but this is a 'friendly' match, for goodness sake. Pre-Olympics. It's not meant to be a grudge fight, or a Derby-type confrontation. It's the Tongans! Since when has Tonga been a controversial nation in the world? They're playing the full England team: we're supposed to win. What else is there to know?

You're here, Melia said quietly. Your presence alone is enough to unsettle things. I'm just glad that Princess Catherine hasn't arrived to be with you.

She's ill, the Royal prince muttered.

One less person to worry about, Melia was thinking.

She turned, unsure what to do next. Her thinking processes were not as sharp as they should be: she was distracted, mainly by the extraordinarily attractive man she was meant to be protecting. It didn't help that the Royal Prince was so devastatingly charming, well spoken and humorous. She hardly dared look at him, for fear of giving her feelings away. She was smitten, she knew that, but hoped that it was only to the extent that most of the rest of the female population of the country had arrived at. Melia certainly didn't need it to get any more personal. She had a job to do.

She was in charge today, she knew that, and everyone would look to her to make decisions. The problem was, they didn't know her, and she certainly didn't look the part. Only a few years older than the Royal prince, she had the dress sense and style of his lovely wife. In other circumstances, say a nightclub or Royal Garden Party, Melia might have been mistaken for an old college friend.

Or a new romance.

She certainly had the figure to appeal to men: she had full hips, a buxom top and long, long legs. Today they were tidily tucked into jeans and her leather jacket hid her other charms, but she could wear an evening dress when called upon, and then she looked like a film star walking a red carpet. Her hair was long and worn casual, like Princess Catherine's, and a similar shade of auburn. Her eyes, she had often been told, were her best feature.

Is this a riot? Kat said, still closest person to the window.

The little party trotted over, Melia in the lead. She stared, trying to make sense of the scene. No, it wasn't a riot, nothing deliberate, but dozens of people had spilled out of their seats and were milling around on the pitch, trying to avoid the swirling smoke and the press of other people. With no players on the park anymore, they seemed to feel entitled to use the grass as a safe haven.

Melia was shaking her head. We need to know what we're dealing with, she said, almost to herself.

As if on cue, her radio crackled into life. A disembodied voice, barely recognisable as her assistant Greg Snopes, or 'Snoopy', as she liked to call him, was trying to communicate.

It's gas, he said. Some kind of gas. I don't know what -

His voice faded.

The club official, Munch, turned to the group. He looked pleased with himself.

Well, that's one danger we don't have to worry about, he announced. This room is now completely sealed. We even have our own air supply. We'll be completely safe, for hours, if need be.

And after that? Melia was thinking to herself.

We have the new owners to thank for that, Munch said.

The Prince looked baffled. But where are the Americans? he asked.

The official looked embarrassed. Oh, they never come into the Executive Box, your Highness, he said. They like to sit out in the fresh air, next to the other fans. Their seats are directly below us, in fact. We'll be able to see them if we look down.

'Fresh air'? everyone was thinking.

Melia couldn't be bothered with any distraction, especially one outside their little room, but Kat moved forward, pressed her face up against the glass and looked in the direction suggested. She gasped.

Kirk is with them! she said to the Prince.

Prince William strode forward, worried that a member of his staff was in possible danger. Kirk was a royal aide, similar to Kat, but had opted to take up an offer from the Spassky brothers, the club owners, to sit with them for the duration of the game. At the time, the prince had been happy to oblige, not being aware of any potential danger. Nobody had suggested that gas would be released against the crowd.

And why, he was wondering? Why would anyone want to do that?

Melia stepped forward. She had a job to do, and that was to protect the Royal Person. She had no time for anything else.

Let's all move away from the window, she urged, a touch of steel in her voice.

And you'd leave my assistant out there? Prince William said tetchily. To choke to death, maybe? Don't you care?

Melia cared nothing for anyone beyond the close confines of the Executive Box. She had no orders to protect aides, assistants, or supporters. She had been told nothing about Americans, either, but guessed that they were far down the list of her concerns, if her boss, Captain Gibson, had been there, and had been able to tell her.

Well, the prince said quietly, now we know why they call you 'Heartless', Madam. I can see the evidence with my own eyes.

Amelia Hartliss, 'Melia' to her friends and colleagues, had long ago resigned herself to the routine that her name had been corrupted to 'Heartless'. But that was her nick-name and, she knew, was richly deserved. When it came to her duty, nothing was going to stand in her way, no matter how many people had to be sacrificed.

She stood back and reviewed the situation. Some kind of 'gas', according to Snoopy, had been released on the west of the ground. It was affecting some of the crowd and they had run out onto the pitch in order to avoid it. Eventually, it might drift along into other areas and cause problems there, but so far, there was no danger to anyone here in the East Stand, including the Spassky family who owned the club, and there was no problem in this room itself, with its hermetic seal.

It was clear what she had to do.

She tried to raise Snoopy on the radio, but when that failed, she picked up her phone and called her Unit's regional headquarters in the middle of Manchester. In quick succession, she ordered that they bring in the Hazmat team, to deal with the gas; they bring in more police and Tactical Back-up, to control the panicking crowd; and call up ambulances from all over the metropolitan area to take away casualties when the ground had been cleared. She then phoned the ground's Security Centre to get an update and hear what they could see on their CCTV monitors. Once they had reported, she gave them orders too.

Open the gates, she declared. Every single one. I want people to be able to leave if they want to, and I want people to know the entrances and exits are all available.

There was nothing worse for causing panic than a rumour that the exits were blocked, she knew; if people could see open gates in front of them, they would know that they didn't have to run to get through them. Word would spread swiftly.

Munch stepped forward. You need to declare a three-seventy, he asserted.

Melia nodded. That made sense.

She got back on the phone and told the Security Office to make a 3-70 announcement. A few moments later, the automated Public Address system came on. They couldn't hear it through the heavy, armoured glass, but a feed was delivered through a line to a speaker in the room. The clear, calm voice said that the Referee had decided on a twenty minute break; play would resume then. It may be true, Melia was thinking, but it was simply intended as a stop-gap. Once people knew there was an 'official' break, hundreds of them would head off for the toilets. That made spaces on the terraces, and would make it easier for everyone else if there had to be a general evacuation later.

The second part of the 'three-seventy' was then relayed. It declared a 'Lucky Promotion'; it urged all attendees to check their programmes and see what number was printed on the front. Anyone with a 5 in the number would now be entitled to a fifty per cent reduction in food and drink. It did the trick: half price snacks was a big incentive for lots of people, and Melia could see hordes of bodies headed for the bars and snack vans, making more space. The catch was, of course, that every programme number had a 5 in it, either at the front, middle or end. That was a useful preparation, in case a 3-70 was ever needed.

But most people, it seemed, the majority, were sitting tight. The reasoning was clear: the grey smoke wasn't reaching beyond the far stand, yet, and so not causing any problems or discomfort for them. Yet. To people who had paid a lot of money for their seats, it might not seem like a big enough problem to want to give them up, not being absolutely sure if the game would be abandoned completely, or simply delayed for a short interval.

But what kind of gas, Melia was wondering? Was it a nerve gas, a deadly toxin? Or something innocuous? To seasoned watchers of the game – people who had witnessed smoke bombs or stink bombs at previous fixtures – it might seem like a minor annoyance, not a major problem.

Whatever the issue, it was her responsibility. That day, she was in charge. She had a mighty weight on her shoulders, and she didn't want to get things wrong. Not just for the sake of the Unit, but her own reputation was on the line too. She had a lot to lose, personally, as well as the life of an heir to the Throne to worry about.

The radio crackled into life. It was Snoopy again.

Tear-gas, he spluttered, his voice raucous, rough and hacking. That's what it is. I'd recognise it anywhere. I was in Palestine, he said, then descended into a paroxysm of coughing. The radio died.

Prince William looked at Melia. Not too big an issue? he suggested, his handsome face cracking into a small smile. He seemed reassured.

Melia was less sanguine. There were too many questions: tear-gas wasn't something you could buy in a Joke Shop, or even order over the internet. It seemed to say that whoever had planned this little incident was doing more than playing a prank. What was the worst scenario? Melia considered: that the tear-gas was a cover, something to get people excited, then, when they'd started to cope with it and relax, they would hardly notice when a deadly toxin wafted out, following it. That's what terrorists often did, such as when a small bomb was followed by a much bigger bomb, once people started to adjust and return to the area.

Melia got up close to the window, trying to make out the condition of the casualties. She could see people at the far end of the pitch, around the far goal and beside it. Some were bent over, apparently retching. Some were flat out, rolling around as if fighting for air. Friends and relatives were comforting them, hugging them, arms around shoulders. Maybe the Prince was right, she concluded; maybe it was more serious than a prank, but less deadly than a terrorist attack.

There's more! Kat screamed.

Looking up, Melia saw another self-contained white cloud, rolling sedately down from the back of the far stand, towards the pitch and the already affected victims.

Two miles from the Manchester United football ground, in a run-down part of the city, an old man with a sallow complexion was bent over a work bench. In front of him were fuses, wires and blocks of plastic material.

Emil Gorange, international arms dealer, was making a bomb.

The door was flung back and a young man burst in.

You need to see the television, he shouted.

He ran over and switched a set on. The TV was on a shelf in the corner of the small room. Gorange permitted himself a glance up, keeping his hands completely still where they were, one holding a soldering iron. He permitted himself a wry smile.

What are we looking at, Munif? he asked calmly.

Gas attack at Manchester United's ground! the assistant blurted.

Gorange went back to his task, not interested in the event.

And what is there? he asked, a small smile playing on his lips.

Prince William has come to watch the match, he was told.

The bastard prince? Gorange muttered. Not even the next in line to the throne. How did he make a good target? Whoever it was that was staging this attack needed to find a better and more valuable person to aim for, he felt like saying.

But he didn't speak. Emil Gorange hardly every spoke. Words are cheap, was his favourite motto. You may judge a man by his actions, he often said.

Out loud he declared: That is not our target, and not our method. We will carry on with our own plan.

The assistant looked irritated and perplexed. Who would be doing such a thing, he wondered? Who would have the resources to take on the Royal Family in Britain? Apart from their gang, he reasoned.

Gorange noticed his indecision.

You won't leave it alone? he asked, eyes focussed on his work. Then ask your brother. He's there, isn't he? He's part of the Prince's retinue. He can answer your questions, if anyone can.

Certainly there was nothing for his young protégé to worry about. The television was showing smoke, but the bomb builder knew that the brother would be right next to the Prince, his master, probably in the Executive Suite. They would be safe from gas and smoke there, an early reconnoitre had told them that: one reason they were employing other methods, as the only ones possibly effective.

Gorange said no more, done with the topic. He had never approved the idea of planting a spy alongside Prince William, and it was annoying him that the plan might actually have been a good one. Certainly, it was an easy source of close information, right now. He wondered why the young man wasn't moving already.

The assistant shuffled his feet. I can't contact him directly, he announced. I will have to wait for the evening, when he calls me.

Then, my son, Gorange said, his voice low and unruffled, you will have to ask the angels to grant you patience. Answers will arrive in their own time. Haven't I always told you that, Munif?

Back at Manchester United's football ground, Melia was struggling to cope with new information. The Control Room had contacted her to say that hundreds of people were now flooding the corridors, heading for the nearest exits. The massive amount of new smoke had started something close to a general panic, and people all over the stadium had started to move. What should they do? What orders did Melia have?

Munch stepped forward again.

You need a Code Orange, he advised.

Melia rejected that immediately. Announcing that they needed to clear the ground was an admission of defeat. Much better to order a targeted approach.

Evacuate the Stretford Stand, she told Control.

The PA sprang into life. A recorded announcement declared that there were 'difficulties' at the western end of the stadium and customers were 'advised' to head for