The Isle of Olympia. Andreas Karpasitis
for a couple of euro to pay for my coffee. The man, watching me, clarified his statement. He explained how this was a fairly bad area, and his store would get robbed once in a while. In order to deter potential thieves, they were trying out a new surveillance system. ‘It didn’t work,’ the man said. They broke the camera a few months later, which apparently was a couple of days after the incident.” James took a deep breath as he revealed the second snapshot. The bike was still static, right next to the walkway, the two passengers with their helmets on. A car could be spotted entering the alley in the background.
Murphy had moved to the edge of his seat, nearly falling off. James watched as Murphy’s eyes flicked to the remaining snapshots in his hand.
James, without saying anything, pulled out the next photo, which showed the car further in the alley. The following picture was of the car next to the bike. The camera shot the pictures in profile— about twenty, twenty-five feet away.
“I couldn’t make a face at the beginning,” James added. “It took me a while, but I managed to clear the picture, I didn’t want anyone else involved so I had to get this done myself.”
Murphy squinted at the photo. The passengers had helmets on, and the car had tinted windows.
James pulled the next photo. It was a close up of the car; the second passenger of the bike was leaning towards the back seat of the vehicle—the window half-opened. A female figure appeared from inside. It wasn’t clear who it was, but you could guess who it could have been when suddenly James pulled the last photo. It was an extreme close up, digitally enhanced. You could see the top half of Diana’s face, her distinctive nose and eyes. Murphy’s eyes lit up as if confirming the thought that it was definitely her. At least, the woman seemed to be her.
James watched Murphy’s expression as it changed. It was as if he could read Murphy’s mind: Yes, this drunk ex-MI6 agent may be showing him made-up evidence, and maybe he is a risk, but at that specific moment, he crossed the line. However, Murphy didn’t get up and storm away, he slowly pulled the picture closer. In the background, the figure of another individual could be distinguished but with extreme difficulty.
“What does this mean?” Murphy asked, his tone neutral.
“Well, my theory is the following: first of all, she’s alive and well.” James nodded and chuckled. “And secondly, the evidence is strong that she was also pregnant. Pregnant with a child that wouldn’t had been accepted so easily. At the time, her relationship was strongly criticized by the royal family. It was also widely known that she wanted to find her peace. She was in love. They managed to fake their deaths to escape and live their own lives out of the restrains of their families and the spotlights of the society they were living in,” James added as he tapped his index finger on the photograph, pointing to the bike. “The most interesting part is the people that helped them. I have a few undeniable facts that they acted before, and that they are probably involved in a much bigger organization than you and I can even comprehend—”
“Listen,” Murphy interrupted, as he pulled one of the photographs closer to him. “From experience, any amount of surveillance footage cannot prove anything for certain.” He brushed his finger over the faded face of what seemed to be Princess Diana. “She can be a look-a-like, a so-called doppelgänger, or possibly this footage is fake. There can be so many other explanations, even with what I’ve seen through my career as a secret agent, it’s hard for me to believe that this was all a lie. If it was a lie, I would have probably known—”
“Come on Murphy, remove those goddamn blinders and see the evidence for what they are,” James exhaled and with agitated moves, stood up and quickly piled up the photos and roughly collected the documents. “I need to visit the bathroom, be right back.” James continued gathering whatever pieces of paper thought were important and didn’t want to leave exposed.
With big and nervous movements, James passed through the space between him and Murphy, while avoiding any unnecessary physical contact, and walked away. When he was a few feet away, he turned around and looked at Murphy.
“Would you get me one more please—double whiskey, lots of ice.”
In his peripherals, James saw the bartender roll his eyes.
Murphy looked stunned. Not that long ago, James had looked and sounded more composed, more reliable, and more trustworthy. And now — Murphy took a quick sip from his not so chilled whiskey; as he briefly shut his eyes, he took a deep breath.
Chapter 6
The bar was eerily quiet. The whiskey he had ordered was still next to his arm, the ice cubes already melting down. The bartender was leaning on the wall across him, his head down, absorbed in his cell phone.
It used to be reading a book or chatting with the stranger sitting across you that was the norm, he thought. He felt tired; he knew his eyes were bloodshot. He looked at his watch, ten past one. “It’s been around twenty minutes,” Murphy whispered, making a quick estimation in his head as he stood up and pulled his wallet from his back pocket.
For Murphy, everything he had heard sounded like science fiction, but he knew from experience, that he had to keep an open mind. Would she ever leave her children? Murphy couldn’t believe that Diana, a mother, would let go of her children for the sake of her own freedom. He truly believed in the power of a mother’s instinct. On the other hand, it was possible that they were aware. But at such a young age? Could they know? Maybe they keep in touch with her? Murphy was divided. He did know all about her issues. Her infamous interview in nineteen ninety-five, where she admitted her controversial personal issues, her bulimia and self-inflicting injuries. She was indeed sick of living in the spotlight and she utterly despised the treatment she received from the press and the paparazzi. She was probably also sick of living an over-the-top life.
“You can close up,” he threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar next to the sweating glass.
“Can’t close up sir, I still have an open tab with that guy you were conversing with. Except if he made a run for it,” the bartender replied with a friendly smile as he picked up the note and the whiskey.
“Oh, sure. Let me go check on him.” Murphy looked around the empty room. “Is there another entrance to the restroom?”
“Yeah,” the bartender replied as he handled the register and the cash he had just received, “it joins the restaurant next door.”
Murphy had a feeling that something wasn’t right, but didn’t want to make any conclusions just yet. “Maybe James changed his mind and rushed out.”
Murphy walked to their table and picked up his bag. There were still a few things of James’ on the table, a coat, his laptop, and a few papers here and there. No one’s here, who’s going to take them? Murphy thought as he started walking away from the table, following the signs towards the restrooms. The corridor was dead quiet. He paused just outside the door.
“James?” he gently called his name.
He pushed the door as he reached inside his coat to unbutton his gun’s holster. Suddenly he could hear groaning and murmuring. Murphy quickly pulled his gun out and forced himself into the room. There was no one there, but he could hear the heavy breathing and groaning of someone.
“James?” he tried again. The breathing got faster.
“Murphy—” a voice shaking said. “I’m in here… I’m dying man; they shot me, those commie pricks.”
Murphy moved to push open the only door that was closed, the door’s top hinge broke. There were clear signs of a fight. As the door opened, the sight was horrifying. James was lying next to the toilet in a pool of his blood; he was holding the right side of his ribs, but it was evident that he was shot in other places too. It seemed that whoever the perpetrator was left in a rush. A silencer must had been used, since there was no reaction from the workers whatsoever.
“I managed to pull my gun on them,” James explained with difficulty. “One of them had a heavy