“The princess had her pick of jets, but she chose something much smaller than the king’s, which is a 747.” I look over in surprise at Paul as he pulls his suitcase out of the trunk and shuts it. He gives a slight knock on the back, indicating to the driver it’s okay to leave. As the Bentley glides away, Paul and I turn for the jet.
“You mean to tell me the multibillionaire princess could have her pick of private planes, and she chose what would be considered a relatively dinky one?”
“She’s never been one for excess,” Paul says simply as he shrugs, but quite liltingly given his French accent. As if it’s a known fact to everyone in the world that she might be different from your standard royal.
I might have been getting an inkling the last few days, although my observations have been limited. While I’ve had almost zero interaction with her since escorting her home from the charity gala, I’ve seen her on a handful of occasions with her family. When in residence and not attending formal events with visitors or outside the palace walls, I’ve found King Thomas, Queen Juliana, and Princess Camille to be casual, laid-back people.
Camille tends to run around in these hot summer months in frayed shorts and T-shirts, and the only jewelry I ever spot her wearing are tiny gold hoops in her ears. While the king is not as informal, he doesn’t wear expensive suits, even when attending to business matters. Usually he’ll be in a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt that, while casual, I’m sure still cost an arm and a leg. The queen is equally casual in her clothing, although she favors sundresses and a bit more jewelry. The king and queen, in the interactions I’ve had with them, have been extremely gracious, open, and surprisingly humorous. I’ve even been invited to join them for evening meals as I’m a guest in their home, but I’ve declined, citing the need to continue working with Dmitri and his crew to iron out the minute details in our plans.
This isn’t necessarily true. We’ve been working our asses off and have it all down. It’s just that I have no desire to make personal connections with my clients. That doesn’t come from any place of ego, and I’m not a closed-off asshole. On the contrary, I’m as outgoing and good-natured as they come, when I’m around friends and family. But it’s easier to do my job if there’s a buffer between me and the people I serve, so I keep things cool and detached. It keeps me laser-focused on my job and makes me not just good but great at what I do.
I learned that icy detachment in the SEALs, and it’s a form of training that will stick with me until the end of my days.
I follow Paul up into the jet and look around in appreciation at the craftsmanship. The entry is a galley similar to what you’d see on a commercial plane, sitting between the cockpit and the main cabin. This galley, though, is all stainless steel and custom wood cabinetry and lighting. The floors are covered with thick, expensive carpeting, except the aisle that leads through the cabin, which is gleaming parquet.
Immediately to the right as you enter the main cabin are chairs and tables in varying sizes on each side of the aisle, four of which recline fully for sleep. Past that is a private entertainment suite with couches and a wet bar, as well as a bathroom complete with shower. Even farther back is a private bedroom with a full-size closet. I checked out the plane yesterday to familiarize myself with it, since we’ll be using it during all our travels.
Paul and I are welcomed by one of two flight attendants, and our baggage is swept from our hands and stowed in a closet. Two pilots do their preflight in the cockpit, and they look over their shoulders at us as we enter, nodding politely. I had a meeting with them yesterday as well, and they are one of two sets of pilots who fly the princess’s jet.
Camille is in the first seat to the left, which rests up against the galley wall. I move past, turn, and catch her attention. When she lifts her eyes to mine, I do nothing more than motion for her to stand. She blinks in surprise but obliges without hesitation.
I nod toward the back of the plane. “When you board your aircraft, always sit in the last row of seats until we take off.”
Camille frowns and asks, “Are you expecting somebody to storm the entrance and grab me?”
I stare back at her, my lack of response indicating that is exactly what I’m paid to expect.
“Oh,” she says in a soft voice of understanding. She stands and moves past to the back of the cabin without complaint.
It’s clear to me that either Dmitri has become lax in his guard of her or perhaps he’s just not as good at what he does as we are. Jameson has always made it protocol to move our wards away from any doors on private transport until we are underway.
Paul looks slightly surprised but nods in understanding, and I can see respect in his eyes. He knows that while the Bretaria airport is well secured, it is not without chinks in its armor. An inside man could very easily allow a handful of people into the perimeter, and they could storm the jet with automatic weapons to force relinquishment of the princess from our control. If that were to happen today, for example, Paul and I would be the first line of defense, meeting them right at the door.
Paul stations himself at the top of the stairs, looking down on the tarmac. His hands are folded before him and he appears casual, but he carefully scans the area while the pilots finish up their preflight checklist.
I see that Camille has taken a seat facing me. I watch as she inserts her earbuds and turns on music or perhaps an audio book. She leans back, head to the cushioned seat, and closes her eyes.
I’d really expected arguments when I asked her to move, mainly because I gave it as a command not to be questioned. Since her blowup at the amphitheater where she as much as told me she’s the boss and I have no right to tell her what to do, I’ve been expecting her to argue at every turn. The fact she didn’t just now is disconcerting, making me keep my guard up with her even more.
We’re in the air before long, and Camille still has her eyes closed, so I leave her alone. Paul and I take a pair of facing club chairs with a square table between us. We’re close enough that we don’t have to raise our voices to talk as we discuss our personal experiences in London. I’ve been there quite a few times, but the city is just too vast and populated for me to know my way around. Paul is the same. He has traveled as much as I have, but neither of us has ever stayed long enough in a place to gain an insider’s knowledge. It’s why part of Camille’s security team in London will be two men who were born and raised in the city.
Regardless, the trip for the cousin’s wedding should be uneventful. We’ll be staying at the hotel where the reception will be held, and it’s going to be a relatively simple protection job. There will be travel to and from the church, and Camille wants to visit a few things while there, but nothing that will cause any major safety concerns.
One thing of interest I learned about Camille is that this cousin and bride-to-be—Rachel—is a very, very distant relation from a branch of the family who left Bretaria over a hundred years ago. They moved to Great Britain and have lived there ever since. Rachel is something like a fourth cousin, three times removed, or some shit like that, but they barely share blood. Camille is attending the wedding because the girls went to the same Zurich university and became very close while there, reconnecting the two sides of the family.