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Situated at the end of the Mall, the half-mile-long road at the heart of the City of Westminster, it is famous for one thing.
    Being the home of the British Royal Family.
    Originally constructed in 1705 as a home for the Duke of Buckingham, it was bought by George III in 1761 as a present for his wife, Queen Charlotte, and renamed from Buckingham House to The Queen’s House. After its enlargement in the 19th century, the expanded palace became the primary residence of Queen Victoria and has been the home of the Royal Family ever since.
    Escorted by an armed guard, three men made their way along the main corridor of the third floor of the palace and through an elaborate set of double doors.
    Inside, the room matched all prior expectation. Red carpet and drapery decorated the floor and large windows, perfectly complementing a further three strong walls, painted bright yellow and decorated by priceless works of art. A large Belgian chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling, an exquisite shade of white that matched the original fireplace. A number of Victorian busts and small statues were located at various points around the perimeter. Unlike most of the offices or conference rooms that the three men were used to, the chairs in the reception room were also one hundred years out of date and monetarily priceless. All were vacant bar one, the room’s owner.
    The King of England.
    The King rose quickly to his feet. Unlike his appearance of several hours earlier, he now wore his trademark military regalia.
    The dark navy blue uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet in the Royal Navy.
    “Let’s keep this brief, shall we, chaps? As I’m sure you are all aware, I have one or two rather pressing engagements to follow.”
    The Home Secretary looked on uncomfortably. “Sir, may I introduce my right honourable friend, Mr Dominic West, one of my ministers at the Home Office, and our Tory MP for somewhere up in the north, no joke intended, West.”
    The man with fair hair smiled nervously. Unlike the Home Secretary and the other man present, this was his first trip to the palace.
    The Home Secretary resumed. “You, of course, already know Bridges, Director General of MI5.”
    The man from MI5 smiled weakly as he placed his glasses to the corner of his mouth. Like the Home Secretary, his once dark hair was now largely grey.
    The King eyed each man in turn, ending with Bridges. “I trust Tim has given you the brief, Colin?”
    The man from MI5 glanced at the Home Secretary and nodded. “Yes, sir, he did.”
    The King began to pace. “Now then, gentlemen, what in heaven’s name are we dealing with?”
    None of the three were willing to speak.
    “Colin, let’s start with you.”
    “The man’s name, Majesty, is Andrew Simon Morris. Born 15 August, 1979, in the city of Leeds; baptised six months later and raised Catholic; left school with practically no qualifications; eventually he found work with the merchant navy and later the royal before leaving to apparently become a Dominican friar.”
    The King nodded, taking it all in. “I suppose the most important question I could ask is, is this man telling us the truth?”
    The DG of MI5 was unconvinced. “The man is clinically insane, sir.”
    “Is that an opinion or a diagnosis?” the King asked.
    “It is the firm opinion of three independent psychiatrists, sir. I trust their opinion.”
    “Insane or not,” West began, “everything that the friar has told us so far that has been possible to verify has indeed been verified. Like it or not, two of my colleagues have recently been found dead. Had it not been for this man, the death of my boss would have been wrongly written off as accidental.”
    The King accepted the point. “Have you made any progress regarding what caused the explosion?”
    Bridges nodded. “Yes, sir.”
    “And?”
    The man from MI5 hesitated, slightly uncharacteristically. “Tests on the car suggest evidence of tampering.”
    West was not surprised. “Well,