The Isle of Olympia. Andreas Karpasitis

      James, in the passenger's seat, grabbed some painkillers from his pocket and, without hesitation, swallowed three. He seemed to be having a crippling headache that wouldn’t be calmed by the recommended dosage.

      “This is not too much?” the driver asked with a deep French accent as he puffed away on his nub of a cigar. “You are trying to kill yourself or what?” He laughed.

      “I’ve taken more, Lucas,” James replied with a smirk of shame on his face.

      Murphy was well aware of James’s story regarding his injury after taking a bullet to the shoulder and his denial of his addiction, numbing himself with painkillers. It was a story that James would share all too often, as long as he felt a sense of security with the conversing party. Murphy knew that if it came out, James would lose his position at MI6.

      Murphy watched as the flashing lights and the cars on the opposite side blurred together. The conversation between Lucas and James was a muffled buzzing in his ears.

      “We are almost there,” Lucas said as he scratched his scruffy beard. “French police at her Majesty’s service,” he continued and laughed. “I thought MI6 was done with investigating Princess Diana’s death; it has been more than ten years now. No?”

      It was a bit shy of fifteen years, actually, but neither Murphy or James attempted to correct him and gently nodded their heads in agreement.

      “We are looking into some new information,” James replied as he turned to follow two glamorous women walking on the sidewalk. The use of the plural was an understatement. Murphy knew that it wasn’t MI6 that was carrying out the investigation but James himself. MI6 was not aware and would not approve of the investigation. James had told Murphy that he was looking into some information he recently had gotten ahold of and was using his connections in Paris to investigate further.

      “But MI6 should have more information than the French Police,” Lucas continued the inquisition. “Why come here?”

       “We are checking some conflicting parts of the incident, and we wanted to come here, up close and personal,” James replied.

      “Well, whatever it is, I am just following orders,” Lucas continued as he suddenly honked the horn to a slow and clearly unpredictable driver that led the way. “What is your view about all this, Mr. Murphy?”

      Murphy was reluctant to answer; he thought he might need to ask James for one of his pills. His eyes connected with Lucas’s through the mirror while he got another cigarette from his pocket and lit up.

      “I think it’s a wild-goose chase, and to be honest, I’m not a big fan of conspiracy theories,” Murphy said, taking a drag from his cigarette.

      “Why are you here, then?” Lucas asked curiously.

      “Well, I’m a good Samaritan.” Murphy smiled as he looked towards James.

      “Oh, come on, Murphy, cheer up and open your mind. What kind of a CIA agent is not a fan of conspiracy theories?” James laughed as he extended his hand outside the window feeling the air push against his palm and brush through his fingers.

      The car sped along as Lucas steered towards the shoulder, just outside the tunnel where Diana lost her life.

      “We are here,” he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt, reached behind to pick up a thick folder, and got out of the car.

      James quickly followed the French detective into the tunnel, while cars kept passing by at lightning speeds.

      Murphy reluctantly opened the door and slowly followed from a distance. As Lucas led the way, Murphy took in his exceedingly unkempt and disorganized appearance. His shirt, which was sticking out of his jeans, clearly hadn’t been ironed or washed for a long time. He probably hadn’t had a proper hair cut for almost a year based on his unkempt beard. Most probably recently divorced, trying to keep up appearances and take care of himself, Murphy thought. Murphy tended to read people without any specific reason. It was his way of escaping his problems, his reality.

      Lucas suddenly stopped as he threw what was left of his cigar onto the side of the road.

      “This is where it happened,” he pointed out, “and hopefully it’s not going to happen while we are standing here because—well, you know, we are dead.” He laughed as he handed the thick folder to James.

      Murphy looked at the spot that Lucas had pointed out. He was a just a kid when everything happened. He had no real memories of it; the only knowledge he had was from a long drunken conversation at college, a conversation that turned into a mystery hunt.

      The three men were standing on two feet of pavement. James crouched down and flipped through the folder. It was filled with reports and photographs of the incident, all thrown in there haphazardly. Their report was mainly focusing on the incident as an open and closed case. It was simple: a car accident that went wrong. The possible causes focused on either the paparazzi, the driver, or the speed of the car. Nothing extraordinary.

      Murphy saw James stop at what appeared to be the most interesting photograph – a snapshot from the security camera of a motorcycle. It briefly stopped next to the crashed car as the passenger opened the visor of his helmet and took a look at the rubble. That wasn’t the only mention of the motorcycle. The sole survivor of the accident had mentioned in several interviews how he noticed a motorcycle next to the car a few seconds before the crash. Many considered this to be the most critical, albeit slightly missing, puzzle piece.

      Murphy turned his attention towards the passing cars as he finished his cigarette.

      “From what I understand, you were one of the first police officers to arrive at the scene back then?” James asked Lucas as he looked at the photograph.

      “Yes, I was; we got radioed that there was a terrible car accident at the Pont de l'Alma tunnel. Who would had imagined it was going to be the story of the century.”

      Lucas seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Maybe he was thinking about when he arrived at the scene, heavy smoke coming out of the tunnel, blocking the horror ahead.

      “Did you see this bike?” James asked, pulling out the photograph.

      “Ah…the great motorcycle conspiracy. No, I did not see it, it was hard to see anything from the smoke, but I heard the engine of the bike speeding away. I can’t be sure if it was related to this photo or if it was any other random bike. There was too much traffic back then, especially after the accident. Everyone wanted to get a glimpse or take a picture,” Lucas said as he leaned his back against the tunnel’s wall.

      James nodded, and stood up. Looking around under the structure, Murphy followed as his gaze stopped on the security camera that had taken this photo. As James slowly walked towards the center of the tunnel, Murphy had an idea of what was going through his collegues mind. There were a couple of more security cameras throughout the tunnel. The assumption was that since there was one camera at the entrance, one more should be at the exit. It would only be with luck that they would find some new evidence after the fifteen year lapse.

      Murphy patiently approached James.

      “Why are you wasting your time, James?” he asked, his voice filled with a mix of compassion and irritation.

      James looked at Murphy and took a deep breath. “I am not doing this because I woke up one day, suddenly believing in conspiracy theories.” James turned his body towards James and took a step closer. “When you are in this business a few more years, just like me, you will come across a lot of noise. You will learn how to filter it, what is complete rubbish, and what has some truth to it. One of those moments was when I was on a mission in Moscow. I was investigating an extremely high-ranking politician. My involvement was immense. His phone was wiretapped, as I needed to collect sensitive information.

      “It wasn’t one of my most ethical missions, as we were looking for secrets to use against the said politician. Use them as leverage to extract what we were after. One night, as I was a few blocks away from the offices of this Russian minister, and while listening to one of