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’ s about the size of it. The hostage-taker had been impersonating the real prince for at least six months prior. Silky-smooth operation. Staying in his London penthouse. Using his expense accounts.”
    Blackwell considered that maybe having been away for so long had somehow deformed his own sense of plausible explanations.
    “And the real guy—where was he during all of this?”
    Carter grinned but without expelling any noise. “Back in his country with a litter of kids and a few wives. And more money to his name than what ’ s in the coffers of the proud states of Maryland and Virginia combined.”
    “He didn ’ t realize someone was staying in his London pad?
Now, is it just me who finds that a little odd?”
    “He hasn ’ t been back to London in at least four years.”
    “Why not?”
    “Nasty neurological condition struck him young.”
    “But, he ’ s a prince though. Someone had to notice in London that our perp was fake. Right?”
    “Theoretically. But Omar Al Seraj was what you would call a ‘ nobody ’ prince.”
    “Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
    “It means he ’ s just one of hundreds of royal offspring who have never been in the public eye or in line to rule anything. Technically, he ’ s a prince, but he ’ s also unimportant in the larger scheme of the universe.”
    Blackwell pondered the implication of the distinction that Carter had made.
    “Think of it this way. No one in London cared to notice the perpetrator was an impostor.”
    “Let alone Mark Price and his people, is what you ’ re trying to say.”
    Carter nodded.
    Now that made sense. Whoever picked this prince as their ticket into Exertify chose well. He was a blank canvass with little prior public history, and could be shaped according to whatever narrative they wanted to peddle.
    Carter rolled up his sleeves, and although Blackwell couldn ’ t be sure, it seemed his former colleague had worn his shirt inside out. “Wanna know something even crazier?”
    “What?”
    “The guy didn ’ t even initiate contact with Exertify in the first place.”
    “Who did?”
    “Their rep in London, Jennifer Willis. She approached the ‘ prince ’ at a US Defense attaché event and then hounded him for months to get his business.”
    This was beginning to sound like classic entrapment.
    “Carter.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I ’ m betting my money he fished them out first.”
    On the surface, it seemed like an ingenious ploy to get into the building. But there were craters of missing details that needed to be filled to explain how some unknown guy was able to impersonate foreign royalty without being caught. Regardless of where this particular prince lay on the periodic chart, you can ’ t just invade a swanky penthouse and pretend you ’ re the royalty who owned it without some sort of consequence. Whoever this guy was, he was either familiar with the real prince and the well-oiled machinery of his life, or someone from the royal circle had tipped him off.
    “Have we contacted the real prince or his government?”
    “We don ’ t have a Legat in-country.”
    “So?”
    “A team from our Baghdad office is heading there to speak to him.”
    “And how about prints from the penthouse?”
    “Our guys in London are working with the MET for prints and DNA. But access to the penthouse is not a given.”
    “Why? Are the Brits playing hardball?”
    “Not at all. But the real prince has paradiplomatic status in the UK, which complicates things a shade or two.”
    A criminal takes over the residence of a prince for months while he ’ s spending his money and transacting on his behalf, and no one lifts an eyebrow. But the FBI has to submit to procedures to get in? Blackwell ’ s ears felt a few degrees hotter. Whatever the FBI could dig up at the prince ’ s London home could potentially save the lives of hostages in an active crime. Something was terribly rotten with this picture.
    Blackwell raised his empty bottle to the