#Louis own security had to help with the barricades too
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Eye of the Sky
Ch. 2
Pairing: Namjoon x oc
Genre: heist au, action
word count: 1,791
warnings: action, violence, gun violence, car chases, car crashes, swearing, blood probably
notes: heist au, action, adventure, crime, enemies to lovers, ooc namjoon, because he has his license lol
Summary: Ten years ago, Namjoon's father was killed by his best friend and partner in crime, A man who now goes by the name Hawthorne. Now, Namjoon wants to get into the family business in order to avenge his father's death. After finding the man who killed his father, Namjoon builds a team and creates an elaborate plan to finally take the man down.
But will they be able to get through Hawthorne's state-of-the-art security system? And will they succeed with a mysterious assassin chasing them? Let's just say, it's a good thing Namjoon's team members keep surprising him with useful skills.
@mozy-j @strawberriewithchocolate-blog @daechwitad-2
In the top floor penthouse in downtown Seoul, Taehyung stood in his walk-in closet, tying his tie in front of the floor length mirror. He checked the time. Five minutes before he had to leave. A text from his driver let him know that his ride was downstairs. After pulling his jacket on and checking himself one last time, he left his penthouse and made his way downstairs.
The drive was quiet. Taehyung appreciated his early morning drives to the museum; it was a moment of peace before getting to work.
His museum was his pride and joy. The building was all white marble, Grecian in design with a massive atrium dome in the center of the roof. He built it himself, without his father’s help. Not that his father would have helped him even if he were alive. His father was killed when Taehyung was a teenager, but the man was never very present in Taehyung’s life. He was almost always overseas on business, a business Taehyung was now in charge of.
Taehyung never minded. He loved what he did. The thrill of it was almost as great as the wealth that came with it. The only thing he wished was different was the fame. He was the owner of the biggest private museum in Korea, not to mention the youngest, and with that title came press. He passed a billboard on the way to his museum, his own face looking down at the expressway.
Stealing famous art and priceless artifacts would definitely be easier if his face wasn’t on every Louis Vuitton cologne and Rolex advertisement.
His museum came into view and he was pleased to see he already had a line outside, waiting for the doors to open. There was a new exhibit opening today, and he was just as excited about it as the people waiting along the sidewalk.
Once he was in his office, his assistant came in with a frazzled look on her face.
“Sir, there’s a big problem,” she said.
Taehyung took a deep breath before saying, “What’s wrong?”
“One of our tour guides called in, he said he came down with something,” she said, frantically riffling through the disorganized mess of papers in her arms. “Which leaves us with only five guides. We’re going to be overloaded. There’s going to be children running around like monkeys, putting their filthy hands on the new exhibit-“
Taehyung grabbed his assistant’s shoulders and fought against the smile threatening to come out. This was just like her, panicking every time something small didn’t go according to plan.
“I will take his place,” Taehyung said.
“But, sir…”
“It’s my exhibit after all,” said Taehyung. “Who better than me to give the tour?”
“Are you sure? People will recognize you,” she said. “Your most recent photoshoot for Hyundai is currently trending on Twitter. You’ll distract from the exhibit.”
“I am sure,” said Taehyung. “I don’t think I’ll be a distraction.”
His assistant gave him a skeptical and not at all placated look as she left his office.
The museum doors were finally open and visitors were pouring in. The crowd was split up into six different tour groups, and Taehyung began his speech throughout the new exhibit. Quite a few eyes were glued to him rather than the exhibit, but he paid them no mind.
A few tours later and something caught Taehyung’s eye through the crowd. He stuttered in the middle of his speech and stared wide eyed at the visitors waiting for him at the entrance.
“Everyone, if you would please pardon me for a moment,” he said. “Please be responsible and follow the signs through the exhibit. Another guide will find you in a moment.”
Taehyung pulled his earpiece and microphone off and pushed through the crowd of visitors. He made it to the front doors of the museum and stopped in front of two men, his smile dropping.
“What are you doing here?” Taehyung whispered.
Jin smiled and said, “What, we’re not allowed to visit an old friend?”
“I’m working,” said Taehyung. “You can’t bring this here-“
“Meet with us tonight,” said Namjoon. He handed Taehyung a slip of paper. Taehyung took it and slipped it into his inside coat pocket without tearing his eyes from them.
“I will speak with you later,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of a tour.”
Taehyung backed away from them and then made his way back to his tour group.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“How do you know he’ll actually show up?” Jin asked as they drove back to Namjoon’s apartment.
“He will,” said Namjoon. “He lives for this kind of thing. Literally. He does jobs like this for a living.”
“I thought his museum was honest now,” said Jin. “Doesn’t he do modelling now too?”
“Oh, sure. His museum is honest alright,” said Namjoon. He took the turn into his parking garage. “If by honest you mean every single piece on display there was stolen one way or another.”
“Doesn’t he buy or…” Jin began.
“Sometimes. But most of the time, he acquires them himself,” Namjoon said as he parked the car. Jin’s Mercedes was parked beside them.
“I’m glad we have him on our side then,” said Jin. They sat in silence for a while before Jin said, “Well, I will see you later tonight. Tell your mother I say hello.”
“I will,” said Namjoon. Jin opened the passenger door and stepped out, getting right into his own car beside them. Namjoon waited a few minutes after Jin drove off before leaving the parking garage himself.
The prison loomed over Namjoon as he stood in front of it, leaning against his car. He didn’t have to wait long before he saw his mother step out of the double doors. He smiled as they met in the middle. His mom wrapped her arms around him and held him in a crushing hug.
“My son,” she said, her voice wobbly. “My beautiful son. Look at you.”
She pulled back and held his shoulders.
“You’re so handsome,” she said. “I mean, you’ve always been handsome, but there was that weird awkward phase you had-“
Namjoon scoffed and rolled his eyes as she burst out laughing.
“I missed you, mom,” he said.
“I missed you too.”
They got into the car and Namjoon began the drive back home.
“How’s your sister?” his mom asked.
“She graduated yesterday,” said Namjoon. “She wants to be a school teacher.”
“Good. I knew she’d be successful,” his mom said. “She’s a smart girl. You both are. How are you? What have you been doing with your life?”
“I work for a tech company in Seoul but I’m planning on leaving them soon,” said Namjoon. “I have a lot of work to do for my new job. Jin says hi, by the way.”
His mother narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized him. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Namjoon, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Well, I suppose it’s none of my business, as long you keep me out of it,” she said. “Whatever you’re up to, you know I won’t stop you. I just want you to be careful.”
“I will,” said Namjoon. They drove in silence for a while before he said, “I’m taking us out for dinner tomorrow to celebrate Geongmin’s graduation.”
“I can’t wait to see her. Why didn’t she come with you today?”
“She’s busy with interviews today,” said Namjoon. He chuckled at his mother’s shocked face. “I know, she doesn’t waste any time, right?”
“Good for her,” his mom said.
After getting home and helping his mother settle into her new apartment he had bought for her next door, Namjoon spent some time getting ready for his own meeting. Jin arrived early, then Taehyung shortly after. Namjoon served them drinks and then sat with them around his dining table.
“So, tell us the plan,” said Jin.
“Hawthorne’s collection is underground,” said Namjoon. “Behind a safe door that only opens with a password and thumbprint.”
“How are we going to get Hawthorne’s thumbprint?” asked Jin.
“We won’t,” said Namjoon. “Because that’s not the print we need. The only thumbprint that will open the door belongs to his son, Laurel Hawthorne. Laurel is the heir to the entire collection.”
“Ah! Laurel Hawthorne!” Taehyung exclaimed. “I’ve worked with him in the past. Not a fan.”
“You’re going to have to meet with him one last time to get the prints,” said Namjoon. “We’ll set up a meeting with him, where you’ll fake a sale. We’ll have someone hiding nearby with a tranquilizer gun. Once we take him out, you’ll nab his prints and we’ll be out of there.”
“This sounds dangerous,” said Jin.
“Inside the collection room is where the real trouble begins,” Namjoon continued. “Hawthorne uses a state-of-the-art technology to protect his collection. The security system inside uses gaseous detection. Once the door is opened, the room fills with a harmless gas. If there’s any kind of movement behind the barricades of the artifacts, another gas is released into the air, turning it toxic. From there, the person inside the chamber will only have a few minutes before dying. Once the security system is neutralized, and the cameras are placed in a loop, we’ll be able to just go in and take what we want. We’ll obviously replace everything with fakes, especially the Sky’s Eye, the item we need to leave with.”
“Ah, the Sky’s Eye,” said Taehyung. “I had a feeling the necklace was what this was about. But I thought only one man has been in possession of the Sky’s Eye for ten years.”
“You are correct,” said Jin. “Hawthorne is the very same man.”
Taehyung’s eyes widened as he made the connection.
“Hawthorne is Montgomery,” he whispered. “So, this job isn’t just for the necklace.”
“We’ll do all of this on the day of Hawthorne’s party, while he’s distracted,” said Namjoon. “We just need to find a way to get an invitation.”
“Yes, that will be difficult,” said Jin.
“Do you know anyone who’s going?” Namjoon asked Jin.
“I might,” he said.
“Do you think it’s someone you might be able to go with as their date?” asked Namjoon.
“Oh, trust me. I would die to be this man’s date. He is the most handsome man in the world, after all,” said Jin. Namjoon narrowed his eyes. Jin burst into laughter, slapping his knee and pulling an envelope from the pocket inside his jacket.
“You had an invitation all this time?” asked Taehyung.
“Of course!” said Jin, laughing and slapping his knee. Namjoon shook his head but couldn’t help a fond smile from pulling at his lips.
#bts#bts fanfic#kim namjoon#kim seokjin#Jimmy K#min yoongi#jung hoseok#park jimin#kim taehyung#jeon jeongguk#namjoon#rm#jin#captain kirk#yoongi#suga#jhope#hobi#jimin#taehyung#v#jungkook#crystalstar#eye of the sky#star trek#heist#heist au
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27, 54 :)
I wasn’t going to post this today. Last story I posted yesterday I’m still trying to push on since it’s still hanging out there in the wind & wasn’t feeling too motivated after that. But I had a really bad fuck of a moment at the end of the day and then this adorable bean decided to insta story pretty much at the same time. So, et voila we’re going with it.
This took a TURN, dear anon. I know it’s soft & fluffy prompts, and we’ll get to it. There’s a bit up at the front, it’s just a little bit of a journey to get to it at the end. I also didn’t expect this to be almost 2.8k. Ooopsies?
Prompts: “You have me to protect you, always.” AND “I will protect you with my life.”
Being on tour with Shawn is one thing. Being on tour with Shawn overseas though is another. It’s always an experience, but for this run it’s especially more than it’s ever been before. You’ve yet to experience a swing outside Canada, the States and Europe. With the last album already exceeding expectations and touring blowing up across the board, the tour went wider and longer than he’s ever done before. Which means in some cities, it’s multiple dates and even more so, graduating to stadiums.
“Excuse me what?!” you yell, looking at the “tickets” he’s placed in your hand. The sentimental fluff he is, had mockup concert tickets made to give you when he told you about Tokyo.
“Me, you, Japan. Gyoza, ramen, carousel sushi, mochi, bubble tea, and yeah playing what they’re telling me should be a sold-out Tokyo Dome,” he replies with a coy smile.
“Holy shit Shawn,” you exclaim as you tackle hug him. “That’s like what 50,000 plus? Sweetie, that’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
It was months away, but you both take to sending each other links to places you’d want to try, or photos of what Tokyo looks like in the spring. You specifically asking for photos of the two of you wandering through the cherry blossoms. You were meeting him there this go. He’s coming into town off the Australia and southeast Asian swing, with Tokyo being the final show to wrap things up before a break. And it wasn’t one show, he sold out two. There was still Latin and South America, but that was after the holidays and nothing to worry about yet.
The energy in the Dome is intense, electric and nothing like you have experienced at any of his shows before. Everything was a glow, every single one of the fans in the seats singing along. You head side stage to where you’ve grown to watching most shows you’re on the road for.
“Something else, eh?” Cez asks loudly to get over the crowd, throwing an arm around your shoulders and drawing you into his side.
You nod, your voice caught in your throat. You’re fighting back being this emotional, but this is unbelievable and that Rockstar up on stage? You get to call him yours.
Cez squeezes you tighter, “I know kiddo, I know. I still get that way even after being with him for this long. Come on, let’s go to the pit for the run.”
You follow, making sure your earplugs are securely in place. The roar is going to be deafening when he hits the straightaway. What you didn’t expect was for him to stop at the end, snag you around the waist, twirl you with a kiss before his usual heading back up for the rest of the finale.
“That’s so going to end up on Tumblr,” you scream at him as he sets you down, and you spy Connor laughing from behind the camera. He caught it all.
“Good, gifs abound showing how much I fucking love you,” he yells back, kissing you one more time before dashing back up to stage.
It takes forever to get through the folks who needed to say hello after the show, you saw him starting to wane after the third massive group that was being ushered into the green room. You caught Cez’s eye, nodding over towards Shawn.
He mouths on it to you and bless him, makes the group filter through quickly. As soon as they’re gone and the door is closing behind them, he collapses on the couch pulling you down next to him, head tipping into your shoulder.
“Hey Rockstar,” you whisper, kissing his temple.
“Mmmm, hi baby. Thank you for being here for here. Means everything,” he sighs, cuddling down into you.
“Always. It’s me and you versus the world, right? Hasn’t changed. Won’t change,” you reply, pressing a longer lingering kiss to his skin. “Go shower. Go change. I’ll even wait in your room for you. Then we’ll head back. Me, you, room service and that pretty piece of silk we found at the night market.”
“Yes please,” he murmurs, kissing you slowly, sweetly like it’s the only thing he wants to do.
“Off with you,” you nudge him up and push him towards the door. His hand reaches for yours immediately, lacing his fingers in tightly with yours.
Finally, when he is done and his team has been told that things have seem to be a bit calmer outside, you start to make your way towards the sprinter van.
“I need you two to hold on to each other, and to me if you can. More importantly to stay close to us,” Jake explains seriously pointing between him and Big Eddie, who was here in Tokyo for the last few days with the team. “We have to do a straight shot to the car. Still too many folks to stop kid, I’m sorry but I can’t risk it. Not with the missus with you.”
You’re not even engaged yet, but since moment one of meeting Jake, he’s taken to calling you the missus. You both nod, Shawn taking a hold of your hand tightly. “I got you,” he whispers.
It’s a crowd like you’ve ever seen post-show before. It’s seas of people on both sides of the barricades. The roar comes once they see him. It’s a swell.
“Fuck, this is not what calm should look like,” Jake mutters. “We’re running. Go go go.”
You tighten your grip on his hand. Jake’s in front, a hold on Shawn, then you with Eddie’s one hand on your shoulder. You somehow hear the metal clatter to the ground and the plastic cracking before you see the people start spilling over and reaching for all of you.
“Shit,” you hear, not sure who it was from, but you’re being pushed forward. The jostling makes you lose your grip on Shawn’s hand first, then the next thing you know people are getting their way in between you and you don’t feel Eddie at your back any longer. You try not to panic, but it’s a sea of complete strangers. You think about calling out for Jake or Eddie. Names that would stand out in the sea of fans’ clamoring. It’s not worth it to even try calling out for Shawn, the crowd is boisterous and already chanting his name. It only takes a few moments before someone realizes who you are. You think about pulling out your phone, but you know it would be a lost cause. You just need to try to keep pushing your way forward. You start to get pulled at, pushed back and forth and it’s hard at this point to not start tearing up. You keep trying to move towards what you think is the direction you were going in in the first place.
At the same time, Shawn is losing his shit inside the van.
“Jake, I don’t fucking care about my own damn safety right now, she’s out there in this shitstorm, and out there in this shitstorm alone,” he yells. “Let me out of here, I need to find her. I told her I had her, Jake. Fuck, I need to get to her.”
“Kid I get it, but you’re not going out there. We’ve got the whole damn team and some of the arena folks weeding through the crowd to get to her,” Jake tries to state calmly. “I can’t let you out there. Hell, I can’t leave you alone in here to go find her myself. You know that’s not safe.”
“Not good enough, if she’s not back in 5, hell in 2. I don’t care Jake; I’ll pop out the damn sunroof if I have to,” he replies, pulling at his hair. “If I promise not to move, stay here, will you go out there? Jake please, I trust you. She trusts you. I just, I can’t just sit here and not do everything I can for her.”
Jake wipes his face with his hand, “You don’t move a muscle you hear me? I’m locking you in the damn car to boot, so no climbing and going through the roof like you threatened.”
“Yes, I promise,” he nods, his eyes still wild from the adrenaline. “Jake, please just find her.”
Jake quickly slides the door open to duck out, locking it behind him.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been, maybe 4 or 5 minutes since Jake left, but it’s feeling like a lifetime. He keeps checking his phone, but he knows there’s no way if you’re lost in this that it’s not worth it to pull out your phone. There are three quick heavy knocks on the van door that has him shifting back against the opposite side. He’s not sure what’s going on. The driver’s side door opens first with the driver shifting into the seat, then Eddie opens the sliding door letting Jake in with you in his arms before slamming it shut behind him.
“Ok time to get gone,” Jake says to the driver as he slides you into Shawn’s hold. “She’s ok, shaken up for sure, rattled and she probably won’t be wearing that shirt again. She said no one went after her, couple folks started tugging a bit harder than normal once they figured out who she was. But nothing bruised, broken or cut from what I can see or what she said. Was a good thing she threw her hair up after the show. I spotted that pineapple bun of hers in the sea of people. Got to her quickly after that.”
“Baby,” he says pulling you into him tightly, burying his face into your hair at first, then your neck. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m here now, I’m right here.”
You’re shaking, cold from the crash of emotions, adrenaline dissipating. You can’t help but start sniffing and holding onto him snugly, wrapping around him like a vine. He was warm and comfort and love, all you really want or need at the moment.
“Call Cez and Andrew, anything that was planned or thought about for the next couple days before we go back to Toronto that has anything to do with work is off the table. That’s not up for debate,” his voice hard. “This also cannot happen again. Ever. That was utter bullshit. They had nothing under control, and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take. This is my family and I’m not having it. I’ll call Louis myself if I have to, this…”
He trails off, the crash starting to hit on his side and the tears start to slowly fall.
“I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you sweetheart, I’m not going to let something like that ever happen again,” he bites out, trying not to cry harder. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry. You’re my everything, you know that yeah? You have me to protect you, always. I will protect you with my life.”
“He tried to fight me to get to you,” Jake chimes in quietly as the van speeds its way back to the hotel. “I just couldn’t let him. But this boy, he was ready to take me if he had to. He’d lay it out and down for you. I’m sorry too, missus. This shouldn’t have been the way this went down. We’ll make sure of it. You’re as much as my responsibility as this kid is, and…”
“’S not your fault,” you croak out, still leaning heavily into Shawn. “Any of you. Crowd control means different things everywhere, especially at a venue that size, and who knew the barricades were going to snap and break. It’s not ok that they basically lied to the team though, that’s what I’m angry about. I’m ok though, shaky and in desperate need of a shower and some sleep, but not broken, not cracked. Maybe just a little worse for wear.”
Shawn wraps you up tighter, “Whatever you need tonight, baby.”
Once you’re back in the hotel, Jake safely deposits the both of you into Shawn’s room. It’s dark and quiet and you just stand in the bedroom holding each other there for a few minutes.
“Shower with me?” you ask, shifting yourself against him tightly again. “Please?”
“Let me call down for some tea first? You go get the water warm,” he whispers against the top of your head.
“Hot chocolate? With Baileys and marshmallows?” you volley back, a half smile trying to creep up your lips.
“Of course, whatever’s gonna make you feel better tonight,” he squeezes you again, before nudging you towards the bathroom. “I’ll let you steal my Leafs shirt too.”
You finally exhale fully once you’re in the bathroom. You didn’t realize you had been holding your breath that long. Or at least that’s what it was feeling like. Setting the shower a little warmer than normal, you quickly strip everything off, tossing it into the corner to deal with later. Stepping under the rainfall showerhead, you start to feel everything just sliding away, tension, the dirt, your fears. Quickly you start to wash off head to toe. You didn’t realize you had started to cry until you heard his feet splash the water against the tile behind you.
“Baby,” he half sighs half cries out, before sliding under the water to press you against him. “Let it go, let it all out. Go head, I’m here. You’re safe, pretty girl. it’s just you and me.”
You feel him start to let his emotions out as well, shaky breaths giving him away. You both stay like that, fusing together until the water starts to cool, but it’s worth it for the feeling a little semblance of getting yourself back together. Both of you.
“Let’s go get into bed with your boozy cocoa yeah?” he asks, lips against your forehead.
As he bundles you up in a towel, you realize for the first time he’s yet to kiss you kiss you since everything. You’re not sure if it’s a conscious decision, part of you thinks it is. You watch him for a moment as he towels off his hair, another balancing precariously low on his hips. He catches you, his lips trying to quirk up into a smile but it’s not quite there. He beckons you closer and you go without question.
He takes a fresh towel to blot at your hair, carefully sopping as much of the moisture away as he could.
“Can I ask you something?” you ask carefully. “You realize you haven’t really kissed me since before we walked out of the venue earlier? Not like you, baby.”
He lays the towel he was using for your hair across your shoulders, flipping the damp tresses out from underneath it. He looks intently at you for a moment before his right palm comes up to cup your cheek, thumb carefully swiping back and forth across your skin. “I couldn’t, I just…” he started before his breath caught for a minute. “I couldn’t forgive myself if something happened to you. It wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you weren’t here with me.”
“Hey, hey, none of that,” you say, pressing a finger across his lips. “Accidents happen. They suck. Yes, and this one, it was scary and all that shit, but it’s done. It’s over. Can you please kiss me now? Please Shawn?”
He kisses the pad of your finger, his other hand coming up to rest against your other cheek. He draws you in closer, tilting his forehead down to rest against yours. He starts slowly, softly. A whisper of a kiss across your lips, almost so light you don’t feel it at first. Then a stronger of a press before pulling away, nuzzling your nose with his. “I love you,” he whispers before letting go and really kissing you. It’s bruising, deep and wet; his tongue relentless. He’s letting everything he’s felt through this all out in this kiss. When he pulls away, you sling your arms around his waist to hold him. You head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat in your ears.
“This wasn’t your fault,” you remind him, pressing your lips against his chest. “Sweetheart, I’m here. I’m ok. We’ll take care of the logistical clusterfuck tomorrow. But for now, what I’d like? Since you said anything I need tonight. I want, I need you to love me Shawn. That’s all I’ll ever want from you, is your love.”
#shawn mendes#shawn mendes imagine#shawn mendes fanfic#shawn mendes fanfiction#shawn mendes fic#shawn mendes blurb#shawn mendes oneshot#shawn mendes fluff#shawn mendes angst#shawn mendes story#soft fluffy prompts
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Tentative first chapter of a modern-Temeraire AU, which is, naturally, Napoleon/Laurence
Present - 2005
French aircraft, like French warfare, has clearly made remarkable improvements in the brief reign of Emperor Bonaparte. Clouds slip under the plane's wings as the Dassault Falcon 60X ascends into the troposphere and levels out without a shiver.
Normally Laurence does not doubt that the dubious honor of escorting the French Emperor to these long-awaited peace talks would have fallen to a more senior officer, but he doesn't question his placement here today. One easy but prestigious milkrun before the Generals will have to hint – or outright tell him – that he won't ever fly in warzones again. Won't fly in any active actions. He will not regret the actions that have caused his new disrepute – the same actions that saved Temeraire's life, along with many others – but if he will be stripped of all use he may as well retire.
Laurence is only serving as co-pilot – an honor and social politeness of some sort that he does not fully understand – but the French pilot has been very curt with him. Not that this is unexpected; France has become very insular in recent years.
Laurence is pulled from his thoughts as the plane jerks and creaks alarmingly. He frowns; it's the first noticeable sound the thing has made all night after more than 1200 miles of flight from Moscow, where the Emperor has just finished another set of talks. All the gauges read normal, but the plane shudders and groans.
He glances at the pilot. “Is this normal for the model, Sir?” he asks. But the officer does not acknowledge him, and his eyes are hidden behind black glasses.
In a complete breach of protocol the cockpit door slides open. It takes Laurence a moment to comprehend the irritated French scold: “What are you doing up here?”
Laurence glances up and tries to recall his briefing. “Nothing at all, Minister Fouche,” he tells the foreign Minister of Intelligence.
“Then damn well fly the plane!”
Laurence curbs his reply as the craft trembles. “I believe something is wrong,” he says instead, and the man shifts at once from furious to alarmed.
Again Laurence glances at the pilot. “...Sir?” he prompts, and when there is no reply he wonders if the man has somehow fallen asleep. He reaches out and taps the pilot's shoulder.
The French pilot falls over.
Fouche swears, yanking the pilot from the seat and tearing off his glasses. Open, dead eyes stare up at them. “What did you do?” the minister hisses.
“Nothing, Sir - !”
The plane shivers again. Fouche glances rapidly between Laurence and the controls, then comes to a decision. “Well, fly this plane, then!” He drags the pilot away to make room; this is unfortunately impossible to hide, and from the passenger area a riot of muffled questions break through.
Laurence ignores them and switches seats. “Yes, Sir,” he acknowledges grimly.
Fouche hovers ominously and with increasing impatience as Laurence runs through the standard diagnostic checks. “Call Paris,” Fouche snaps finally. “My security team - “ and when he rattles off a frequency Laurence has to admit,
“All communications seem to be down.”
Fouche vanishes into the back of the plane. Laurence checks the board once more, grimly, and then finding no choice angles down the plane's nose.
The rattling begins in earnest, easily accompanying the sickening dip of an artless descent. The door opens again. “What now?” someone demands.
“We are landing.”
“We are in the middle of the North Sea, Captain Laurence!”
“We are equipped for a water landing, Sir, and I do not trust this trip to fly to England – unless you have a better proposal. I would also advise - “ Laurence finally glances at the other speaker and stiffens.
Napoleon Bonaparte glares back impatiently. He is not as short as the papers say, Laurence thinks distantly. “Well?” Bonaparte snaps.
“...I would advise,” Laurence says, “That Your Majesty use parachutes to evacuate the plane; if there has been subterfuge at all it is not unlikely the plane has been rigged to explode, especially as this would be the most convenient time since leaving Russia. If I am correct we may have little or no warning.”
“Parachutes. And I suppose there are enough for all my staff? No?” Bonaparte sees the answer on Laurence's face. “I will not be made a coward by some terrorist. You think you can land this plane?”
“I shall certainly try, Sir.”
“Do it; and we, meanwhile, will search for answers elsewhere.”
If asked, Laurence would say that the use of cell-phones on a plane – especially one as advanced as the Dassault Falcon 60X - is not likely to do much harm; warnings against phone-use are mostly a precautionary measure these days, and primarily used to limit radio interference anyway, which Laurence for whatever reason cannot access. Still, under the circumstances it is exasperating as it is understandable to slide open the door, glance back, and hear the entire French convoy shouting into their phones.
Fouche seems to be insulting his subordinates; a man Laurence might recognize as the Emperor's brother-in-law us speaks wincingly in a pidgin French and Italian, apologetic and consoling, while Napoleon's head of household, Duroc, speaks rapidly and lowly into two different devices.
The Emperor himself is the picture of grim efficiency, splaying out half a dozen folders and holding a monitor close to his mouth as the plane rattles to pieces around them. “No, no, what did we do to Madame du Maurier? I – well, that is true. But she forgave us, and anyway she does not have the heart for killing. Of course it was a damn French assassin, do not waste my time, that is why we brought one of our own planes! To avoid assassins! - No – No, shut up if you have no good ideas. Limit your search to people in Paris; it does not help us if you question some culprit half the world away in a month when we are dead – Yes, what?”
Laurence clears his throat. “I beg your pardon; you should all sit down and secure yourselves. We are about to land.”
The next few minutes are likely fraught with tension for Laurence's passengers, but he can spare them no thoughts. The plane seizes in protest of the changing atmosphere as they descend through a cloud-bank and come into view of the glittering sea.
The Royal Air Force makes stringent preparations for every contingency – her officers, too, are expected to be well-versed in all intricacies of flight. This being said, Laurence has never personally overseen a water-landing before, mostly because they are typically avoided at every cost.
The problem is that planes are, first and foremost, designed to land one way; if an aquatic landing even occurs something has already gone very, very wrong. The Dassault Falcon 60X, like most passenger aircraft, has a series of small wheels that can jut from the base of the plane's body when landing begins. The plane doesn't put its full force on these at once; for a few minutes it will touch down and essentially fly parallel to the ground, slowly skipping over the earth and letting the wheels absorb speed and traction.
Water does not absorb because it pulls. On water, the plane does not skip or help the plane gradually pull down. There is only one chance to skate the plane across the water, perfectly at angle, so it doesn't crash and topple – at least not until everyone has had a chance to evacuate. In normal conditions this arrangement shouldn't be horribly difficult; in ideal conditions, it shouldn't be required.
Laurence methodically closes the air-vents and all other openings to the plane, hoping to keep it buoyant. He tilts the plan at a slight angle, so the nose will remain high, and keeps the wings carefully level.
Blotches of foam and roiling blue water pound over the viewscreen as they slam into the sea, jerking, rising; the plane skids like a ten-ton pebble before plunging down and bobbing, for one long heart-beat, above the water.
Laurence holds his breath.
____________________________
1989
“What do the poor sods think they'll accomplish,” is what John wants to know. He gestures at the television with a grimace, shaking his head. On-screen the bottom text reads, Rioters barricade house of the French minister!
“They'll be arrested by tomorrow,” dismisses Augustine. “Political protest means nothing these days; peaceful tactics are useless, and violence like this - “Augustine gestures with disgust, “Only causes trouble. And then people criticize that you should try a nice boycott, instead...”
Laurence must admit that this sounds correct. But he says, “It is certainly a statement.”
“I can make statements too,” Granby says. “All kinds of statements. I prefer the kind that don't get people arrested or beaten up by jumpy cops.”
A loud wail comes from the other room; Augustine excuses himself after sharing a brief, despairing glance with John. “Iskierka has to stop crying eventually,” John says, half to himself. “She's just a baby. She will stop crying eventually.”
Laurence smiles faintly. “I have no doubt,” he lies. Glancing one more at the bloody scene on-screen, he says, “I am afraid it is late; give my best to Augustine.”
By the time Laurence leaves the house no one in France has been arrested; the live broadcast just shows continuous rioting, continuous tales of tragedy. The next morning dawns too early. He wakens and starts to pack, fully intending to head out to the bus station, ride in to base, and ready himself for briefing and deployment. The Royal Air Force has been deployed in Bosnia and his number is up.
But the bus won't be arriving for half an hour; he's already packed, so Laurence circles his small sitting room for awhile, plucking his satchel, then flicks on the television while he waits.
He stares for a moment at the revealed screen, and then sits down.
BBC news continues to broadcast in Paris. Row after row of dismembered corpses run across the screen.
A close-up. Louis Bourbon, the caption reads under one bloody head. Late Minister of France.
_____________________________
Present
If someone has tampered with the plane there's a new danger in every action Laurence performs – he's already instructed the convoy to touch nothing, and for once he appreciates the value in having politicians with military experience. A few of the aides look a bit wild-eyed, but everyone does precisely as he says. Even the Emperor.
(Laurence reminds himself that very, very few people have been executed since Napoleon's reign began. It's not particularly reassuring.)
The Emperor's brother-in-law is head of the Armee de l'Air; he comes forward and watches Laurence suspiciously for a few minutes before seeming satisfied. At last the risk must be taken. Laurence powers down the craft entirely. Suddenly the engine's ominous stuttering whirs to a halt; the only sounds which remain are the slow, empty crash of waves and the echoing ocean as they bob over a barren sea.
______________________________
1989
“And now the new Directory of the Republic of France will read the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen - “
“They're turning into communists,” mutters Riley with disgust.
Laurence isn't sure. Some of the phrasing and rhetoric he has heard is a little disturbing (the French politicians over the radio keep calling each other 'citizen' and 'citizenyet' in a move eerily reminiscent of Stalinist Russia), but most of the Declaration sounds reasonable.
Of course, this Revolution started with a massacre; that isn't exactly a point in favor of the new French 'Directory'.
“I am afraid we are not in the best circumstances to judge,” Laurence says, and this his navy friend must concede.
The radio broadcast has monopolized attention throughout the compound, of course. There have already been mutters about a war in France, a war that would be much closer to home if the UK decided to intervene. Riley, Laurence and a few other naval and Air-Force officers have gathered outside the commissary to listen.
The reading of the Declaration is interspersed with cheers and shouts. Evidently the broadcast comes live from Paris. The reading does not last long, but after a pause, the broadcaster announces, “Eight people in hoods are now being led into the square, under guard – they're wheeling out a guillotine - “
Everyone waits, frozen.
“ - Oh. They're being put in the guillotines.” The broadcaster sounds a bit blank; in the background cheers rise, rise, blurring into static. “Their hoods are off – they - “
The broadcaster is drowned out by an explosion of shouting and screams.
And then her voice fades in, saying distantly, “Oh no. Oh no.”
______________________________
Present
“Completely helpless,” a man now identified as King Murat says to Laurence. Clinging to the sinking plane, and shivering in the water with everyone else, he does not look very regal in his borrowed life-jacket. “I do not like it, no; lost at sea, in this day and age! Good France will weep for our mysterious fates - “
“This is no fucking mystery,” Bonaparte says flatly. He throws his drenched phone at Murat, and it falls uselessly into the sea. “Fouche tells me a ship is coming from France; you will forgive me, Captain Laurence, if I do not care to journey the rest of the way by plane.”
_______________________________
1990-1998
France seems to exist in its own sphere outside time; no one inside appears bothered that the U.N. and NATO have both been called to investigate the conditions of post-Revolutionary France. As talks linger it surprises everyone when Italy unilaterally declares war.
It's an even greater surprise when France emerges victorious.
“Napoleon Bonaparte,” says Admiral Roland when the squadron sits down to talk about it, what it means. “Papers have been calling him the Little Gunner of Toulon, because apparently he shot down some of their own Frenchies during the Revolution. Ha! Now he's a symbol of France, and he's Corsican-born to boot.”
The little gunner – as though those guns weren't fully lethal, as though the empty bodies of dead civilians which lined up Paris' tiled streets don't still find their way across the covers of newspapers. Caricatures of the Corsican general depict him screaming 'Liberte!' while hulking troops shoot at rag-clothed women and children. The pictures don't do justice to the vividness of pictures and tapes smuggled across the channel, videos carefully posted in hidden corners of the emerging internet by defiant French loyalists. But despite this evidence it is not until the war of Italy that Bonaparte's name first makes international headlines.
When the war begins Bonaparte is not even a senior general, but somehow it's his name, again and again, that makes the news. And it's his voice the people hear when Italy cedes to France, in his name that peace is called; Bonaparte is a name that the common Frenchman knows, and loves.
And the Directory is stumbling.
______________________________
Present - 2005
Bonaparte's men put Laurence under watch as soon as they're aboard the Fraternite, which he can well understand. What shocks him is that the ship still proceeds to England.
“Sir,” he says when the Emperor visits him in his small berth; he has, at least, been spared the indignity of a cell, which is promising “Do you still intend to continue with the peace-talks?”
“Until I know if an Englishman tried to kill me? Yes. You will forgive this treatment, Captain, but precautions are necessary.”
Bonaparte does not sound apologetic at all.
“Of course,” Laurence agrees. “But if I may – ought I not report these events to my commanders?”
“No. We would prefer to arrive and take events as they occur.”
“England will already know that something has happened to the plane, your Majesty.”
“Yes – but of the whole world, only those on this ship know everything. For the moment.”
Well, everyone does say that Bonaparte likes to attack by surprise.
______________________________
1999
France's finances deteriorate; crime rises; trade and insularity hurt the economy while widespread hunger, nearly as severe as the poverty that struck under the old Ministerial regime, begins to take hold. “At least we have freedom,” say French citizens, desperately, when bold foreign reporters dare to sneak into the country for interviews. But the world expects another change, another tipping point; what is freedom with an empty belly?
Napoleon Bonaparte decides to address the Council of 500.
How curious, news stations proclaim – its only a vague note of interest, made slightly more interesting because Napoleon's brother, Lucien Bonaparte, is president of France's new legislative body. But half of Europe sits up when Bonaparte is ejected from the council - as General Murat's troops storm the building, eject the democratically-selected legislators, and leave behind a bare committee who dissolve the reigning Directory under Lucien's direction.
Every television station in France shows one clip on repeat – a man inside the House brandishing a dagger through the air, hand jolting toward Napoleon's heart amidst a yelling mob of politicians. The shot is blown up from every angle.
Outside France, they show the now-defunct legislators being run down by mobs on the streets of Paris. The mobs are frenzied in defense of the new Consul. “Good god,” says an English news anchor, taken so aback that his professionalism falters. “Will they kill anyone for that madman – why do they love him so much?”
_____________________________
Present - 2005
“Well,” sighs Admiral Roland. “There is no saving you now – I cannot imagine a better scapegoat, nor a more willing one. What was that report, Laurence? Possibly due to negligence in checking equipment - “
“It is a possibility that must be considered,” Laurence says.
“It is entirely inaccurate. The French made the plane, the French checked the equipment - you were just accompanying them over as some ridiculous diplomatic courtesy and still you manage to take the blame. And despite rumors, my power is not unlimited. I can't save you when you're so damnably determined to hang yourself.”
“I would like no such thing. But we both know,” Laurence says, “That my career in the Royal Air Force is over.”
Roland scowls. “Not by any fault of your own,” she says at last. It's the first time she has openly supported his decision; Laurence appreciates, also, that she will not lie to him with false denials. “But you do not have to make it so easy to blame you, Laurence. You do not deserve this.”
“I do,” he says, and means it. “That is enough, Admiral, I promise you.”
_____________________________
2001
Within a week of his reign First Consul Bonaparte makes overtures to half a dozen major world powers, including the UK and Russia. There are no similar appeasements for the broken remnants of Italy, a handful of scattered papal states left under loose French control.
Bonaparte is painted as a military genius, a tyrant, a madman. But the image won't quite stick: he's accomplishing too much, and Britain dithers over a reply to his offer even as the Russians begin negotiating for a firmer peace treaty.
The franc has stabilized the French currency, and despite disparate beliefs members of every political party in France applaud Napoleon's educational reforms, his modernization of the financial system, the newer and simplistic bureaucracy that has already been a relief to average citizens. Religious minorities praise the protection of his Organics Act even as he somehow makes successful overtures to the Pope – an especially impressive feat considering that Marie Antoinette, famed socialite and late wife of France's previous minister, was sister to the previous Holy.
Despite ongoing tensions over the Revolution, Napoleon himself is a figure of contradictions and debate. He becomes hard to criticize. Then in 2004 a news black-out, which is nothing strange for this new France, blocks information about the reborn country for a full six days. Finally the drama leaks that there's been an assassination attempt on Napoleon himself.
And, suspecting old supporters of the Bourbons were responsible, Napoleon responds like this: he arranges to have Minister Louis' cousin, the Duke of Enghien, kidnapped in the dead of night, brought to Paris, and shot before anyone notices his absence.
______________________________
“What do you mean he is to blame,” Bonaparte asks.
Laurence sighs a little. This farce will be terrible enough, but he did not realize he would be personally interrogated by the French Emperor. “Plainly Mr. Laurence did not sufficiently check his plane,” says Admiral Croft. “In light of that negligence - “
“Someone tried to kill me and you fib like a child,” Bonaparte accuses. “You are not even in the Air Force, Admiral. Captain Laurence. Do you personally check your plane before each flight?”
Laurence is forced to admit, “I run the systems through the computer, and conduct basic safety tests, but engineers on-base are responsible for general maintenance.”
“Yes. So. What did you do?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What did you do that your superiors are so quick to see you destroyed?”
_______________________________
2005 – Two Months Previous
“You'd think someone would know,” John complains. He gestures at the television, currently broadcasting yet another rundown of the situation in France. “'More information as it is uncovered' – that means they don't know anything... Iskierka, no.”
Iskierka looks entirely unfazed but leaps back when Temeraire eyes her suspiciously. She drops her paintbrush on the carpet (Laurence sighs) and begins tearing apart her paper instead.
He needs a bigger sitting room. One with a divider, perhaps, so when Iskierka visits she and Temeraire don't need to look at one another.
They were somewhat kinder to each other when Temeraire was still sick.
“I can't imagine that anyone will know when Napoleon is arriving until he's already in the country,” Augustine says. “I mean, he has his supporters even here, but he's just as likely to be shot as anything else.”
“Or his plane could get mysteriously lost,” John says darkly. “Save everyone some trouble.”
Laurence shifts uncomfortably. This hits a little too close to home.
He hasn't told anyone about his next assignment – his last assignment - for obvious reasons. In six weeks he'll be heading to Moscow to be drilled in security protocols, briefed by the French ambassador there, and instructed about the Dassault Falcon 60X to help transport the French diplomatic party, including Napoleon himself, back to Britain. The concession of a British co-pilot was meant to be a symbolic gesture; to Laurence it feels not only useless but potentially disastrous. He's been studying his French furiously since being given the assignment.
“You've been quiet,” says John suddenly. “What do you think of this nonsense, Will? You usually won't stop talking about politics.”
Laurence clears his throat. “We had peace three years ago,” he says. “I see no reason we cannot have it again; I hope only that this new resolution can be more lasting.”
“That treaty didn't last a year,” John complains. “And then Napoleon got himself crowned Emperor; an Emperor in Europe, like this is the Middle Ages. Anyway, that's not what you usually say.”
“I will always support the prospect of peace,” Laurence protests.
“You're usually a bit more cynical about actually getting it, though.”
“He is a soldier,” says Augustine dryly.
“I think we are quite due for a peace; there has been very little fighting on land between our two countries, and neither nation should wish for that. France and England are close enough to do great damage to one another in this day and age.”
“Piss poor time to be in the navy,” John agrees. “But you know Napoleon would attack us by land; he's done it to Spain and Italy. I'm more surprised he hasn't tried, really.”
“We have not yet provoked him sufficiently – that is the only, the sole reason for his restraint. If we are to prevent such war we must find peace; I do believe we could win such a war, but the costs would be too great.”
“I can agree with that,” Augustine says. “And even aside from the risks of war, peace would be wonderful; all this fear is awful. And I'm tired of seeing planes patrolling overhead, like we're going to get attacked any second – I'm sure this isn't what you imagined when you joined the RAF, Laurence.”
“That matters little enough. I will be finding something else soon.”
“Damn you will,” John snaps. “They're idiots if they fire you - “
“I will not be fired,” says Laurence wryly. “ - I am lucky not to be court-martialed, rather; it has been considered. It is still being considered. I had best resign now while I still can. This is all for the best, John, I promise you.”
“At least you'll have more time with Temeraire,” Augustine says when John looks mutinous. “Gong Su is a good man, but Temeraire will be thrilled to have you in England permanently, Laurence. You only have one more trip, do you not?”
“Yes,” Laurence agrees.
And what he'll do after that, he has not the least idea.
______________________________
Present
“I see,” says Bonaparte when Croft continues to sputter. Laurence looks away. “Very well; be assured I shall find out. If you want him cast away so badly that is all well and good. I will hire Mr. Laurence, then, and he will not be your concern any longer.”
“What?” asks Admiral Croft.
“What?” demands Laurence.
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WINDSOR, England | Prince Harry, Meghan Markle smile with joy at the altar
New Post has been published on https://is.gd/trJAtW
WINDSOR, England | Prince Harry, Meghan Markle smile with joy at the altar
WINDSOR, England — Prince Harry and Meghan Markle gazed into each other’s eyes Saturday at the altar in St. George’s Chapel as a soprano sang a work by Handel to celebrate their trans-Atlantic union in front of hundreds of celebrity guests and millions of viewers around the world.
The American actress arrived to a fanfare and walked down the aisle accompanied part of the way by Prince Charles, and by 10 young page boys and bridesmaids. The children included 4-year-old Prince George and 3-year-old Princess Charlotte, children of Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge.
Markle’s sleek white dress, designed by British designer Clare Waight Keller, had a boat-neck and was made of silk. Her veil came to her waist in front and billowed out for many feet behind her long train.
Prince Harry and best man Prince William wore dark formal military dress, with white gloves and the frock coat uniforms of the Blues and Royals. Harry kept his full red beard intact.
As they stood at the altar, Harry said to Meghan: “You look amazing.”
A host of celebrities and athletes — including Oprah Winfrey, Idris Elba, Elton John, George and Amal Clooney, Serena Williams, James Corden and David and Victoria Beckham — arrived in the bright sunshine at Windsor for the ceremony.
Prior to the festivities, Queen Elizabeth II honored her red-headed, 33-year-old grandson with a new title: the Duke of Sussex. That means that Markle will become the Duchess of Sussex when she says “I will.”
The wedding is a global event, thanks to Harry’s status as a senior British royal and Markle’s celebrity after starring on the U.S. television series “Suits” for seven years. The wedding pomp and ceremony — complete with Anglican prayers and tradition, classical music, a gospel choir and a horse-drawn carriage ride through Windsor — will be beamed live to tens of millions of TV viewers across the world.
Relatives at the ceremony included Charles Spencer, the brother of Harry’s late mother Princess Diana, and Harry’s cousin Zara Tindall and her husband. Also in attendance was the family of Prince William’s wife Kate: Parents Carole and Michael Middleton, sister Pippa Middleton and brother James Middleton.
Harry’s ex-girlfriend Chelsy Davy was also among the congregation, as was Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York, the ex-wife of Harry’s uncle Prince Andrew.
Outside the castle, thousands of fans crammed the streets of Windsor. Irene Bowdry, a lawyer from California, was aboard the jammed early train to Windsor. She booked her trip to England as soon as the wedding date was announced.
“An American in the royal family, isn’t that so exciting?” she said.
The weather was balmy and clear, bathing the ancient stones of Windsor Castle in a beautiful spring light. Royal fans have been camping outside the castle for days, and British police have stepped up security, with sniffer dogs, barricades and patrols all over town.
“Windsor is absolutely bursting with excitement,” said royal historian Hugo Vickers. “There are cardboard cutouts of Meghan and Harry in every shop window, virtually. There’s bunting all over the place. I’ve never seen so many people in the streets of Windsor.”
Everyone is waiting to see which designer Markle has chosen for her wedding gown. Prince Charles, the groom’s father, will walk Markle to the altar after her own father became too ill to attend.
It is a time of transition for the British monarchy, one that seems filled with hope as William and Harry — the two sons of Charles and the late Princess Diana — step ever more confidently into the limelight. Many in the crowd, like Ana Karukin, a Brazilian nurse living in Florida, said they came to witness a moment of history.
“We’ve got to be here for him and for her, my Meghan, my special girl, to support them, because it’s a beautiful time,” she said. “I wish that Diana was here, but she’s in heaven watching over them.”
The brothers found the time amid the wedding hoopla to stroll outside the castle Friday evening to thank fans for coming. A smiling Harry gave a thumb’s up and answered “Great, thank you!” when asked how he was feeling on the eve of his wedding.
And it seems to be a time of joy for 92-year-old queen and her 96-year-old husband, Prince Philip, who plans to attend the ceremony despite his recent hip replacement surgery. She is seeing her grandson marry a woman who clearly has brought him the happiness he’s often said was missing from his life after his mother’s premature death.
The family tableau will play out on the broadest possible stage. Dozens of broadcasters set up on the castle grounds for a visual feast. The chapel itself is a masterpiece of the late Gothic style, and Windsor Castle has been home to British sovereigns for nearly 1,000 years.
After the ceremony, the newlyweds will ride a horse-drawn carriage through the streets of Windsor, flanked by a British military procession with many officers on horseback.
Then it will be off to the first of two gala receptions. The first will be hosted in the afternoon by the queen — with finger foods, wine and champagne. The second, smaller reception is being thrown by Charles. A three-hour break in between will allow for a rest and a change of outfits for the lucky 200 invited to the evening soiree.
The chapel service will reflect Markle’s American roots. The Most Rev. Michael Bruce Curry, the African-American leader of the Episcopal Church, will deliver a sermon, and the musical selections will include versions of Ben. E. King’s “Stand By Me” and Etta James’ “Amen/This Little Light of Mine.”
Markle will be accompanied by her mother, Doria Ragland, when she is driven to the chapel, and many of her closest friends and some co-stars from “Suits” will be in the audience. She opted not to have a maid of honor but there will be 10 young bridesmaids and page boys, including 4-year-old Prince George and 3-year-old Princess Charlotte, the elder children of William and his wife Kate.
Harry will be joined by some of his buddies from his 10 years of military service — an experience that included tours of duty in Afghanistan — and from many of the charities he supports, which have focused on helping wounded veterans or encouraging a more open discussion of mental health issues.
The couple has made an effort to honor the memory of Harry’s mother Diana, whose older sister Jane Fellowes will give a reading during the wedding service.
After seeing the couple up close, Curry said Friday that he saw “two real people who are obviously in love.”
“When I see them, something in my heart leaps,” he said. “That’s why 2 billion people are watching them.”
___
Kirka and Lawless reported from London.
By GREGORY KATZ, DANICA KIRKA and JILL LAWLESS, By Associated Press – published on STL.News by St. Louis Media, LLC (Z.S)
___
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