“She’ll be safe behind Bretaria’s walls,” Paul says.
“Except for the one person who has slipped through the vetting process. Someone who might have been in the circle of trust but who has been offered a fortune to kill the king and Camille. Say, perhaps … someone like me.”
Paul jerks and rounds on me, eyes wide with astonishment. He realizes it could be anyone, and he’d be right to be suspicious of me, just like I’ll be suspicious of anyone other than the king and queen themselves.
“Of course, if I were going to kill her, I’d have done it long before now and with an undetectable poison,” I say mildly.
He utters a long curse in French. “The next few weeks will be perilous for her and the king, even in the sanctuary of the palace.”
“Agreed,” I say flatly. “Keeping them both alive is going to take a lot of work, because the enemy could potentially be within. It’s unlikely, but it is possible, so she can only be surrounded by the most trusted. That has to be you and Dmitri.”
But even I can’t guarantee they’re a hundred percent trustworthy. I’m going on gut instinct as I’m usually a good judge of character.
“Has the princess inquired why the security protocols were changed on this last day?” Paul asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet, but I’m afraid it’s coming.”
“The king doesn’t want her to know,” Paul reminds me.
“I’m not going to lie to her if she asks me point-blank whether she and her father are in danger.”
“The king won’t like that,” Paul warns.
“Fuck the king.” And I truly mean that. I don’t answer solely to him now. By virtue of my personal relationship with Camille, I unfortunately also answer to her.
Camille and I might have an end date that’s fast approaching—really the time it takes to get to Bretaria and for me to turn around and leave the next day after I debrief Dmitri—but I am never going to lie to her.
Even if that means incurring a king’s wrath.
CHAPTER 18
Camille
I have no clue what’s going on, but I’m going to find out. This last day in DC my freedom to move about and see what I want has been severely constrained. The two museums I wanted to take in today were changed to a private tour, which I don’t necessarily mind, but I also don’t mind being in a crowd either. I like being around people.
What I do mind, though, is something happening that caused us to move to private tours, and I’m not sure what. Normally I don’t question security protocols because I know they are fluid and could be for a host of reasons. When I asked Paul, without hesitation he said the change came at the request of the museums themselves; in case I should be recognized, they didn’t want the disruption.
I had no reason to question it, and I didn’t for the longest time.
But then I noticed that Jackson remained aloof and distanced, particularly once we made it to the Holocaust Museum. He was always within a few feet, but he had that stance about him that he was on high alert. Eyes moving around, watchful and tense, always coming to me for a few seconds and then moving on. He seemed concerned about something, and the more I observed him observing me and the surrounding area, I knew something was up.
I even tried to ask him about it after our tour of the Holocaust Museum was over and we’d made our farewells to the director, who I made a note to have my secretary send a huge gift basket in thanks. His tour was lovely.
But when I asked Jackson point-blank why the change in plans, and why he was being more hawklike than normal, he blew me off.
He actually said, “Not now, Camille.”
This implied he’d tell me later, but now I’m getting impatient. In the limo on the way to the airport, I tried to broach it again. Paul was in the car with us, and Jackson merely put me off again, and then initiated a long-winded conversation with Paul about the differences between two different guns, all of which I found incredibly boring and off-putting.
Now we’re in the air and the chime has sounded indicating it’s safe to remove our seat belts. As instructed that very first day I boarded my own plane with Jackson and he ordered me to the back of the main cabin, I’ve sat obligingly since being airborne. Paul and Jackson have stayed at the front in facing club chairs, chatting amiably.
Just as they are doing now.
It’s worth noting that Jackson took the seat with his back to me, and I wonder if it’s because I’m asking questions he clearly doesn’t want to answer. Perhaps he’s afraid if he were facing me across the length of the cabin, I’d try to question him with only my eyes.