Chapter 14 Grey OBE

When they first arrived at Buckingham Palace, Grey took in the grand architecture. Intricate carvings covered every column. The palace's wrought iron gate sparkled in the late afternoon sun, his eyes traced the twists and curves of the royal crest with an inspector's eye.

For several minutes now, the black Sedan crawled behind a long passage of cars up the tree-lined drive. Red uniformed guards in brown bearskin hats patrolled the sentry boxes flanking the gateway, screening each vehicle. Invitees dressed in glamorous gowns and suits photobombed the statuesque royal guards carrying their bayonets and muskets.

Once Chen cleared their papers at the checkpoint, they rolled into the vast red gravel courtyard.

Victoria's Memorial Fountain came into view, splashing merrily in the center, with carved dolphins and seashells adorning the sides, surrounded by statues of past monarchs.

Grey took a deep breath. He was finally here.

"If you manage to place it on His Majesty's hand during the ceremony, the microchip will dissolve under his skin," Chen said, holding up the blue plaster.

Grey considered the plaster suspiciously. The smooth texture and faint medicinal scent did little to reassure him.

"And you're sure this will work?"

"The plaster will be on your left little finger. Your monarch is right-handed. If you make contact, he'll probably touch you with his right hand. Also, by the way, when you greet others, shake with your right hand and avoid touching drinks with your left. Other than that, you're all set."

"That sounds well dodgy, guv?"

"I have not promised to go through with it yet, Turner."

"It will work, I assure you. Now, place your finger here," Chen insisted.

Grey offered his pinky as instructed. Then Chen swiftly affixed the plaster. Almost immediately, a slight tingle spread from the appendage as the foreign substance made contact with Grey's flesh. Examining it closely, he wondered if he would go through with Chen's plan. Suddenly, a guard rapped on the window, yelling for them to move along.

"Apologies, we're on our way in now," Chen said, cranking down his window.

"Hurry it up then. You're causing a backlog!"

The guard eyed them questioningly, then walked away.

"Easy there, mate. You're like a cat on a hot tin roof," Turner said, noticing Grey's unease.

"That's easy for you to say. Think of me when you're getting half-pissed while I'm up there."

"It's not every day we get to go to Buckingham Palace."

Chen shifted the Sedan into gear, joining the procession of cars. All too soon, they reached the front of the queue.

"Good luck. I'll be watching from a distance," Chen said.

"How comforting," said Turner.

"You better be here on the way out," Grey snapped.

"Just chill guys. Don't stress!"

Grey and Turner stepped onto the red cobblestone courtyard, taking one final look at the sedan driving away. Aged columns on either side sandwiched them in on their path. Grey breathed in the heady smells of flowers from immaculate gardens, which led onto a thick, luxurious red carpet. Ornate gold-plated brass balustrades signaled the pathway to the ballroom's gilded doors, with ushers checking invitations at the entrance.

"Right Turner, before we go in, we need to be as inconspicuous as possible. Try not to draw too much attention to ourselves."

"Guv, I get it. Haven't you seen me in action undercover?"

"Why do you think I've taken you off undercover duty for the last few years? You can't act to save your life."

"Excuse me, boss. Do you not remember the Met Players Amateur Dramatics Society, where you rotted out the stage with your amazing rendition of Phantom of the Opera?"

"I was told that I had a talent for the craft."

"Everyone was trying to be kind to you, Guv."

"I will get Julia to throw my mask out then!" Grey said regretfully.

"You have a pretty good golf swing, if that counts for anything," Turner said.

"As much as I enjoy discussing our hobbies, shall we get it over and done with?"

"After you, Mr. Bigshot."

Grey and Turner walked down the red carpet like a couple of movie stars, presenting gold-inlaid invitations to the usher at the door. Once inside, every gleaming surface and crystal chandelier bore witness to Buckingham Palace's storied history. Grey spotted various guests milling about the ballroom: dignitaries, socialites, and celebrities alike.

"We should circulate," Turner said quietly.

"Blend in with the background; let's mingle."

Grey nodded. "Good thinking."

He chuckled inwardly at the irony of going undercover as himself. A server passed by with a tray holding half-pint glasses filled with an auburn-hued liquid that gave off a woody, malty aroma. They each took one of the glasses. Turner inspected his drink.

"What is this bitter?"

The server responded pompously.

"That's from the King's private brewery. We call it BB Royal Reserve."

Turner spotted the actor Michael Caine chatting with guests.

"I'm going to go say hello," he said excitedly.

Grey smirked. "As long as you don't do your impression."

But Turner was already striding over to Caine, shaking his hand vigorously.

"Mr. Caine, it's an absolute honor. I just had to say, yer films are brill, mate," Turner said.

Grey took a long sip of the bitter brew, trying to gather his thoughts. Across the room, Michael Caine eventually extricated himself from Turner and walked off, shaking his head in bewilderment. Turner returned to Grey's side.

"What a nice bloke," Turner said.

"Micheal Cain is here to get his knighthood."

Grey sighed. "Did you do it?"

"I couldn't 'help it, guv. I had to do my impression!"

He lowered his voice and said,

"Oi told ya to only blow the bloody doors, orf!"

Grey sighed again. "What was I saying about undercover work again?"

Turner grinned sheepishly, sipping his BB Royal Reserve, as the ceremony announcer's voice boomed throughout the hall, commanding everyone's attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please be upstanding for His Royal Highness, the King!"

The audience straightened out as one. Grey adjusted his tie nervously as the king's entourage arrived through a side door. The king passed by, taking his place at the front of the expansive ballroom. Chief of Staff Robinson stepped forward and spoke clearly into the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you His Royal Highness!"

The crowd erupted into a sea of applause, with the king looking out onto the rows of attendees, smiling graciously.

"Today we gather to honor the achievements of all outstanding individuals from all walks of life. Your talented contributions enrich our society, and I thank you for your dedicated service," the king announced.

"Now, let the awards commence!"

Robinson stepped up to the podium and read the first name on the list.

"Michael Caine."

The attendees produced another round of applause as Michael Caine made his grand entrance to the front of the ballroom. He walked with a cockney swagger, a smile playing across his lips.

Michael Caine shook hands with the king and knelt. The room held its breath. The sword tapped his shoulders. Grey watched each moment intensely, thinking of his past friend. The king then placed a medallion around Sir Michael's neck.

"Rise, Sir Michael Caine."

Sir Michael smiled at the king before turning to face the audience, who burst into a hearty round of applause, cheering at the sight of their veteran actor now receiving his nation's highest honor. Sir Michael raised a hand in acknowledgment, grinning at the audience's thunderous acclaim.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The line moved forward, stiffening Grey's posture. Sanderson's murder relentlessly replayed in his mind, fueling his quiet anger. Alarmingly, a low buzzing static began to ring through his ears, bringing a throbbing headache.

He tried to shake off the strange white noise without suddenly drawing attention, but it only grew louder.

Turner watched Grey with growing concern, detecting something was off. There was an air of nervous uncertainty about the whole affair that kept Turner on edge.

Royal Protection officers patrolled the hall, wielding the most advanced explosive trace detectors available. Two of the officers paused for a moment because their detectors started emitting a whirring frequency that focused unerringly in Grey's direction. They advanced with grim expressions, moving like homing missiles with unmistakable intent, closing the distance.

Uncle and Victor Petrov monitored the feeds of the ceremony from inside the intel cell from Grey's bugged point of view. Banks of screens flickered through the grainy footage. It kept cutting in and out of resolution.

"The signal is lost! Half the screens show nothing coherent—just broken static." Petrov commented.

Panicked Mandarin escaped from the lips of Uncle's men. Grey's world spun wildly, with distorted colors smearing together. Two figures in red uniforms came into view. Then it dissolved again into static once more.

Uncle slammed his fist on the table in frustration.

"Screw Chen; the tracker must have malfunctioned inside the target's body."

"I thought you Chinese were supposed to be tech pros. But of course, typical low-quality Asian manufacturing," Petrov scoffed.

Petrov pointed to a blinking dot on one of the screens.

"At least the transponder is still working," he sneered.

"Amateurs, you should have left it to the professionals of the KGB."

Uncle was worried that Petrov might be right; the microchip had internally malfunctioned, and its transponder had alerted the guards through its internal electrical current.

Hot anger flashed in Uncle's eyes as he jabbed a finger toward the cluster of technicians.

"One of you, get over here now. I want a full diagnostic report while we still have a chance."

A skinny young tech jumped up, speed-walking over with a tablet displaying the microchip's status. He spoke quickly in Mandarin to Uncle, who listened intently while studying the readings.

Petrov watched them closely. "Any updates?" he asked gruffly.

"He's working on it. Let's hope we regain the signal before it's too late."

The skinny young tech tapped frantically at his tablet, blurting codes under his breath, to the whining sound of the guard's body scanners blasting out of the software. At this point, Turner was squirming in his seat. People in the ballroom began to shuffle their heads around in confusion at the commotion, fearing it might be a bomb threat.

The guards broke through the crowd, making a beeline for Grey. The scanners began to complain tenfold more.

"Hands up!" One of the guards barked.

Grey's arms were pinned behind his back, through the gritting of teeth, against the sudden pain of manhandling. The other guard ripped open Grey's wrist, exposing the blue plaster.

"What's this?" he demanded sharply.

Grey struggled to keep his voice even.

"Just a medicated plaster?"

The shrill whine from the scanners climbed while the guards traced Grey's body with their wands in methodical sweeps. The scanner emitted an urgent buzz. The guard gripped Grey staunchly.

"Have you got a bomb on you? Fucker!"

"Sir, the microchip malfunctioned because its transponder resonated with the iron in the target's blood cells. It's overloading the receiver," the young tech explained to Uncle.

"Then fix it," Uncle ordered.

"I tried several reset codes. As a last resort, I initiated a hard reset. It looks like we're back in business."

The microchip's signal wavered, then restabilized; buzzing and whirring ceased on the guard's scanners, and the high-pitched sound in Grey's ears faded. The guard, who'd been restraining Grey, released him with a puzzled look.

"I apologize; it seems to have been a false alarm."

Grey resisted the urge to rub his sore arm with his left hand.

"It's quite alright. It must have been a glitch with your equipment. We get it all the time in our units!"

"You're a soldier then?" the guard asked.

"I'm a serving member of Scotland Yard. I'm about to get my OBE," said Grey.

The guards apologized again profusely, with Grey telling them not to sweat it.

"What the hell was that?" the guard asked his partner.

"I don't know," said his partner.

"We will have to file a report with our Field Marshal about these pieces of junk."

Robinson cleared his throat, announcing the next name on the list.

"Barbra Winters."

Turner shot Grey a concerned look; however, Grey gave him a small nod, reassuring him that he was okay. The exhausted tech exhaled in relief.

Petrov grunted in disapproval. "The microchip did its job...barely."

Uncle went over to the sweaty tech.

"You showed grit today. You will take that useless Chen's place in responsibility."

The tech nodded, accepting the honor bestowed by Uncle.

Robinson's voice rang out. "Inspector Thomas Grey!"

The crowd gave a polite applause when Grey stepped forward to kneel before the king. Turner clapped, relieved to see his friend still in one piece after his close call with the guards.

Inside the intel cell, technicians monitored the scene, which centered on the king.

Uncle and Petrov tilted forward, the camera zooming in until the king's grim irises dominated the monitors. Grey looked up into those inky eyes of his; were they the eyes of a man of secrets and guilt?

"His spine will not hold," Petrov stated roughly.

"This is the moment we've been waiting for. Everything hinges on whether our inspector has the stomach." Uncle said

Petrov folded his arms. "Pah. I remain skeptical. These British are temperamentally unsuited for sensitive operations."

The king smiled benevolently.

"Inspector Grey, Chief Sanderson's death was a tragedy. He dedicated himself to the law of this country, and his absence has left a void not easily filled."

Something about the king's words rang hollow, like an actor reciting rehearsed lines in Grey's mind; the empty platitudes irritated him.

The voice analysis technician in Uncle's control room monitored the minute fluctuations in His Majesty's voice—subtle changes in cadence, emphasis, and prosody—that the software had interpreted as a 74% likelihood of deception.

The technician watched the probability score on his screen fluctuate to 83%, especially when the king spoke of Sanderson's death.

"The king's speech shows a very high probability that he's deliberately deceiving Grey. The deception score continues to climb as he speaks," the voice tech said.

Uncle pondered this information. "Inspector Grey will likely notice the king's vacant words. It may stoke Grey's anger further."

The king continued. "The security of my family and this realm depended on diligent men like Sanderson. We are grateful for his sacrifice!"

Sacrifice? Internally, Grey snapped at the cold detachment in the king's word 'sacrifice', as if Sanderson's brutal death meant nothing more than a pawn taken in a game of chess. Grey barely managed a respectful nod. Seeing his window of opportunity, tears welled in his eyes, looking up at the king like a pro undercover.

"Your Majesty, Chief Sanderson, was like a father to me. I thank you for your kind words."

The king smiled a diplomatic smile, placing a reassuring hand on Grey's shoulder.

"You have my full condolences. Sanderson's dedication to his duty was an inspiration to us all."

Grey arose, shaking the king's right hand. Firmly pressing the blue plaster onto the king's palm, he maneuvered it bitterly for his fallen colleague. His Majesty was clueless about what had just transpired. Grey bowed his head reverently.

"You do Chief Sanderson proud with your wise leadership, Your Majesty."

One single idea echoed triumphantly through Grey's mind: Checkmate.

"Inspector Thomas Grey. I am pleased to award you the OBE for all your years of exemplary service."

The king draped the glittering gold medal around Grey's neck. Then he withdrew from his royal presence to the ripples of polite applause.

Robinson called out. "Kyle Minogue!"

Once Grey had taken his place back in line, he wiped away the simulated tears while grinning cynically at Turner. In the control room, Uncle and Petrov watched the king's point of view radically show up on the monitors. The microchip’s transponder was working flawlessly. Uncle stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"The target has been tagged."

Petrov gave an overblown sniff.

"A job well done, despite these British and their sentiments. Emotions can be a distraction in our line of work."

"Indeed. The inspector kept his head and completed our objective. We now have a way to track his royal highness's movements. And of course, Grey, if he decides to cause us any complications."

Petrov smirked. "It's manipulation straight out of the KGB handbook."

With the ceremony drawing to a close, Turner turned to Grey.

"Well, guv. I wasn't sure if you was going to go through with it. Can we act like a tree and leave now, please?"

Grey paused in thought, assessing their next move.

"My sentiments exactly, Turner; I hope Chen is outside somewhere."

Grey and Turner walked away from the palace ballroom, passing pockets of people, and descended the wide ceremonial steps. They crossed the red cobblestone, heading for the waiting Sedan. Chen was settled behind the wheel.

"Chen, get us out of here," Grey said urgently.

Chen turned the key in the ignition, and the sedan's powerful engine growled to life, speeding away into the late afternoon traffic. Grey looked back at the palace as it shrank in the rearview mirror, seemingly leaving behind him a lifetime of regrets.

"Your crappy Chinese tech nearly got me arrested by the king's guards, you prick, and I heard a high-pitched buzzing the whole time. What's the deal, Chen?"

"Buzzing in your ears, what are you on about, guv?" Turner said.

"Inspector, please accept our apologies. The technology is very experimental. It appears that the microchip malfunctioned during the operation, causing unintended side effects. China is in your debt for carrying out this delicate task."

"Experimental Chen? I have kept my end of the bargain as your techno guinea pig. Now I want your actions for Sanderson."

"You have our assurances. We aim only to be a useful ally in your pursuit of truth and justice."

Grey leaned back in his seat. Still, the faint buzzing rang in his ears. He rubbed his temple, feeling the start of a migraine coming on. Turner took a look out the window as they went by the South Bank of the River Thames, which was gradually disappearing from view.

"So what now?" Turner asked.

"I don't know about you, Turner; I just want a night in my bed."

"I mean at the racecourse in Liverpool?"

"We do as Roland Blackwell said. We wind down the investigation and take our bloody holiday. And wherever the chips may fall, it's not my problem anymore; I'm done worrying about it."

He stared at his plastered pinky, unease crept like an unwelcome stranger. The reward did not match the risks. Grey unflinchingly examined the silent Lo Chen, searching for any sign of deceit or betrayal, suspecting there was more to it than he was letting on.

But one thing was clear: There were too many moving pieces in play, and Grey wanted to know who was moving them. And for that matter, why was he and Turner stuck right in the middle?

The skyscrapers faded into the golden haze of dusk. In the end, Grey made it home to his loving family as a hero.

Turner nipped into his local pub, downing six pints, and then he staggered off to his local curry house.