He hadn’t stopped there. Gold-and-silver baubles, gemstones and platinum rivets decorated the bridles of the horses and the coats of the twenty-four horsemen. The drive was lined on both sides with standard-bearers holding twenty-foot wooden poles displaying the Union Jack. Every article of textile, from the flags to the coats to the horse blankets, had dangling gold fringe. It was truly a royal procession that was staged in front of the Heathrow Airport terminal exit.
The orders had reached the street cops. There was no police resistance to the unscheduled jubilee, and they were organizing the crowds like any other royal event. The police were making room for the media, even providing priority access for Wylings’s staff.
Wylings had expected this. The queen and the other powers that be were not going to risk intimidating him—not when he had the power to burst his WMDs in the streets of London, symbolic heart of England. The more England’s people appeared to be a part of today’s events, the more legitimate would be the coronation. With police escort, this parade would look as it should look—like a royal procession. The ceremonial arrival of the king of England. This parade and the festivities that followed would convince the world that he
Wylings’s hired band played. The police struggled to hold back the crowds, and four attendants—four, count ’em—came to perform the act of opening the doors from the airport terminal to the drive. Delightfully, it was an automatic door and the assistance was purely ceremonial. This was getting grand indeed!
Of course Wylings was paying for all this attendance, just as he paid for the carriage restoration and rented the horses and hired the standard-bearers and even purchased the big Union Jacks they were carrying. He spent a mint on the virgin-red cad carpet upon which he strolled from the terminal doors to the waiting carriage.
The people threw confetti, which he had paid to purchase and distribute. He waved, with one hand, showing royal restraint, and gripped his thin briefcase in the other hand.
The world was watching it all on their televisions— even if they did not know what they were watching yet. There would be rumors flying, because Wylings had himself tipped off the media.
Maybe Buckingham Palace would confirm the rumor and maybe they would demure. They were probably trying to think their way out of this situation in a hurry. They wouldn’t be able to. Wylings had planned everything too carefully. He had even had a hand in writing the speeches of support to be delivered by his comrades, Dolan and Sykes, after the coronation festivities.
For now, the royals would be keeping mute—but they would not risk denying the rumors. That was as good as a confirmation. The media were receiving the carefully prepared portfolio on James Wylings, which emphasized that he was a royal insider and even had distant blood ties to the royal family. Given his position in English royal society, marrying the queen of England would seem like a reasonable explanation for Wylings suddenly rating a splendid royal processional.
Wylings relaxed into the seat of the carriage as the parade began to move, away from Heathrow and toward London. It was going to be a slow trip, certainly, but even that was a part of Wylings’s strategy. The media frenzy needed time to build into a mountain. There would be massive efforts underway to get teams into London capable of covering an event as major as an impromptu royal wedding and coronation. Wylings wanted them to have all the time they needed. The whole world should be watching when he achieved his station.
The trouncing was awful and the cushions were designed to be decorative, not comfortable. His tailbone was getting bruised. He tried to adjust his behind, but there just didn’t seem to be a comfortable place for his royal butt.
“I’m getting a royal pain in the ass!” he mumbled to himself, and he had to restrain himself from snorting aloud as he passed a bunch of cheering old ladies on the curb. Snorting was not the dignified behavior of a king of England, but the private joke was funny.
Wylings, old man, take control. You’re getting giddy.
Well, why in blazes couldn’t he get a little giddy? He was about to become the king of England!
But blast, his rump was sure complaining.
The private jet landed smoothly, braked to about fifty miles per hour, and the hatchway flew off as if blown with explosives.
