by Ted Bell
“It’s not luggage,” Mr. Mahmood said, the quiet smile suddenly gone from his face.
“Sorry?”
“It’s not luggage.”
“Looks a lot like luggage to me,” she said carefully, professionally, beginning to have serious doubts about this passenger. He leaned into her and spoke barely above a whisper.
“It’s a bomb, actually.”
“Sorry?”
“You heard me.”
“Say again, please. I must have misunderstood.”
“I said, listen carefully please, it is a bomb. Fifty pounds of extraordinarily powerful explosives. I’d like you to close this station now. Please inform those waiting behind me that you are no longer checking in passengers.”
She looked him in the eye, paused, then called out to the other passengers waiting at the white line, “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, this station is temporarily closed. My colleagues to the left will be more than happy to take care of you.”
There was some mumbling, but like the trained sheep they’d all become, the numb passengers mumbled a bit then moved over to queue up at the rear of various other agent stations.
Rosetree leaned across the counter and whispered very forcefully to her passenger.
“I have to inform you, Mr. Mahmood, that such remarks, while perhaps in jest, subject you to immediate arrest. Have you been drinking? Taking prescription narcotics? Are you completely aware of what you have just said?”
“Miss Rosetree, again, listen very carefully. There are seven of us here in Terminal Four. Two here in the First Class check-in area, and five more out in the main section of the terminal. Each one of my brothers carries an identical explosive device to the one you see here. We are unidentifiable. Our passports are in order. We are in constant communication via the Bluetooth device I am currently using. This entire conversation is being monitored by my six fellow martyrs.”
“Well, I—” She lowered her left hand and moved a finger toward the emergency button beneath her computer terminal.
“Both hands on your keyboard. Now. I’m aware that you have the means to signal security with your foot as well. If I or one of my colleagues should detect any aggressive action by any airport security officials or U.K. internal security forces we know are in place, we shall immediately detonate our devices using buttons like the one you see here on my extended luggage handle. Detonators. See it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, please, try to remain calm and do exactly as I say. If you comply, no one need die. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to place a call to this number at the BBC Television Center. You will reach Mr. Simon McCoy, executive producer of BBC World News. One of my colleagues has just spoken with him and he is expecting your call. Tell him who you are and inform him that you have a passenger who wishes to be patched through immediately to the on-air presenter now broadcasting live, a woman named Betsy Post-Miller. I have a message to deliver to the British people. Unless Mr. McCoy complies immediately, Terminal Four, Heathrow, will cease to exist. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, all of her worst nightmares coming true in this surreal moment.
He passed her a folded piece of paper with a single phone number inscribed. Agent Rosetree picked up the receiver and dialed the number. A man answered immediately.
“This is Simon McCoy.”
“Mr. McCoy, you are expecting this call. I am British Airways Agent Rosetree. I have a passenger here who wishes to deliver a message via your on-air presenter, Betsy Post-Miller. You are aware of the consequences should you not comply?”
“I am. Put him on. Miss Post-Miller is in the studio, on air, and expecting this call. She understands the situation.”
She handed the receiver to the pale terrorist. He took the phone in his left hand, kept his right hand on the bag handle, his index finger poised above the button.
“Miss Post-Miller, am I on the air with you? Live?”
“You are.”
“Do you have a close-up of me on the CCTV cameras?”
“We do.”
“What am I wearing?”
“Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie.”
“Good. Let’s proceed.”
“Please don’t hurt anyone. We’ll give you as much airtime as you wish.”
“I would like to address the people of Britain on behalf of my fellow countrymen both here and in our beloved homeland of Pakistan. We came to your shores with high hopes and open hearts. We have found only humiliation and scorn. Our hopes have been dashed and our hearts closed because of your cruel indifference to our dreams of a better life. In our home country, your troops massacre our brothers and sisters, bombing innocent people in Afghanistan and Pakistan daily. Our children are dying daily in the fires of your bombs.
“We will accept nothing less than Taliban rule and Sharia law in our own country of Pakistan. And until the last infidel is dead, until all British forces have left our blood-soaked lands, we, the Sword of Allah, will continue our righteous jihad against our oppressors both here in Britain and in our native land. Consider this as your first warning. It is only the beginning. There is no God but God. We are the Sword of Allah! Allahu Akhbar! Allahu Akhbar! Allahu—”
SAHIRA WAS JUST ACCELERATING UP the curving Departures ramp for Terminal Four when an unearthly blast shook the ground and the sky itself caught fire all around her, a brilliant, blinding orange that scalded her eyes as she swerved the Mini violently to avoid a red London bus that was careening wildly, clearly out of control.
She smashed off a guardrail, hit a parked black taxi broadside, spun out, hit a concrete barrier, and was then flung back across the road, the steering wheel jammed painfully against her chest. She was skidding directly into the path of the bus, which suddenly was airborne, hurtling end over end toward her through the air, completely engulfed in flames. Trapped by the steering wheel, all she could do was stare at it in horror.
Astonishingly, time slowed to a remarkable degree. Slower than the slowest motion, almost coming to a stop. Sahira could distinctly see the passengers inside the bus, many of them on fire—men, women, and children tumbling about inside, flaming rag dolls trapped within the pinwheeling vehicle, hurtling through space. It seemed to be headed directly for the Mini.
She’d never felt more in God’s hands than she did at that moment.
SEVEN
GLOUCESTERSHIRE, PRESENT DAY
HIGHGROVE HOUSE, THE HOME PRINCE CHARLES acquired in 1980, had been purchased for him by the Duchy of Cornwall. This sudden real estate acquisition only added fuel to the nation’s feverish speculation that the Prince of Wales was seriously considering marriage to the lovely swan Diana Spencer. The handsome prince and his blushing bride dominated the media in a riot of anticipation. It all seemed predestined, and yet…
Perhaps this truly was a union made in heaven, as an enthralled nation had already decided. And, besides. The eyes of the world were on Britain once again, which was only as it should be. Hearts swelled with pride and spirits were lifted as never before, or, at least since Elizabeth II’s Coronation in 1953. For England, it was a godsend.
It was a fairy tale.
Highgrove Estate is today a working farm. It consists of rolling parkland fringed by thick forest. A number of farm buildings occupy around nine hundred acres of arable land. The beef herd at Highgrove consists of pedigree Aberdeen-Angus who share the permanent pasture with a flock of Masham and Mule sheep. The gardens, which Chief Inspector Congreve was so especially keen about, consisted of a wild garden, a formal garden, and a walled kitchen garden, all designed by the Prince of Wales.
His goal, Charles had said of the house, was this: “To feed the soil, warm the heart, delight the eye.” He’d certainly achieved this and much more, Ambrose thought, eyes everywhere and filled with keen anticipation.
The house, built in 1798, was a classic three-story Regency manor house. Not spectacular by any stretch of the imagination. The rat
her plain exterior was enhanced by Charles, who had embellished it with a new balustrade, a new pediment, and classical pilasters designed by the Prince himself.
Alex Hawke rolled the Bentley under the porte cochere at the front entrance and got out to survey the damage to his beloved car. Extensive was an understatement. He ran his hand over the still-warm bonnet as if consoling a wounded comrade on the field of battle.
A Special Branch detective, a member of SO14, the Royalty Protection Squad at Scotland Yard, took one look at the severely damaged automobile and approached Hawke on the run.
“Sir! I heard about the attack on the road. Are you and the chief inspector all right?”
“Yes, quite. She’s heavily armored, the old girl, thank God. Has MI5 been notified?”
“As it happens, sir, MI5’s director of domestic intelligence was five miles behind you on the same road, en route to Highgrove. Sahira Karim. She’s at the crime scene now with half the police in Gloucestershire en route as well. Apparently one unidentified man was found dead, the other five have escaped in one automobile, one other automobile burned at the scene. We’ve used your descriptions and the police are looking for them.”
“You’re on high alert here, Officer? I doubt there are more of these fellows in the area, but I would not discount it entirely.”
“Of course, sir, we went to full alert as soon as we got the chief inspector’s call from your car. Any idea at all who attacked you?”
“Yes. Someone who did not want Chief Inspector Congreve and me to arrive here at Highgrove alive.”
Hawke turned away and went to help Congreve, who was having trouble opening his door. Hawke tugged at the mangled handle, kicked the door a couple of times, and managed to get it open.
Ambrose Congreve, understandably a bit shaky, climbed out of the battered but unbowed Locomotive in the shade of the porte cochere and gathered his wits about him. He was still alive, after all, and he’d been invited to spend the weekend with the Prince of Wales. He took a deep breath and looked around at the magnificent gardens.
Despite his brush with death and his recently rattled nerves, he still found this entire adventure too marvelous for words.
“Are you quite all right?” Hawke asked, a worried look on his face.
“Yes. But that was very unpleasant.”
“More than unpleasant. Disturbing.”
“What do you mean, Alex?”
“Whoever planned that attack knew we were meeting in secret at Highgrove today. A private affair with the Prince of Wales. There are two routes in and two roads out. The assassins clearly had advance knowledge of our route.”
Congreve nodded his head in agreement. “Indicating they have contacts and allies inside our security forces. A leak. At the top, or somewhere very close to it.”
“Not necessarily. Could have been a gardener or a horse groom on someone’s payroll. It’s happened before.”
“True.”
“And they didn’t want us to attend this meeting. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Very,” Congreve said.
“Well, we’re safely here, so let’s just relax and enjoy a weekend in the country, shall we?”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
Ambrose had never considered himself as one so gauche as to be starstruck by the Royals, but he couldn’t control the fluttering of his heart as a liveried servant took his bag and said, “This way, sir, His Royal Highness is expecting you in the Library. You’ll find your belongings unpacked in your quarters on the third floor. A footman will show you the way.”
Ambrose looked briefly at Hawke and said, under his breath, “HRH is expecting me. Did you hear him say that?”
“Of course he’s expecting you, Constable. He invited us, remember? Do refrain from prostrating yourself at his feet, will you? He’s a lovely chap, very bright and very down to earth, and, besides, fawning doesn’t suit you at all.”
“You can’t deny it’s still a bit thrilling.”
“Oh, please, toddle on. Security will have alerted him to the attack en route. I’m sure he’s worried about us. I suggest we not keep him waiting.”
They were shown into the Library. The Prince of Wales was seated at his desk, a shock of white tulips in a sparkling vase of cut crystal at his elbow. With his head bowed over a ledger, an ink pen poised in his hand, he was obviously attending to estate business. When he looked up and saw Alex Hawke in the doorway, clearly unharmed, a grin lit up his face, cordially taking in Congreve as well.
“Your Royal Highness,” Hawke said with a wide smile, “it was so good of you to invite us to Highgrove. A rare privilege. Exciting journey, as well.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Prince Charles put his pen down, pushed his chair back, and stood. Congreve had long known the two men were friendly, but the look on both their faces belied a much deeper, older relationship.
“Alex, this attack is shocking, to say the very least. I hardly know what to say.”
“There really isn’t too much one can say at this point, sir. Until we find out who was responsible. But let me assure you this is not the first time someone’s pointed a loaded gun in my direction. As dear old Winston said, ‘There is nothing quite so exhilarating as to be shot at without effect.’”
“Alex, your sangfroid is admirable, but you must understand that one frowns upon the attempted murder of invited houseguests.”
Hawke smiled and said, “You’re looking well, sir. Happy. Healthy. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
Charles, looking his old friend up and down, replied, “Well, rumors coming out of Bermuda to the contrary, I must say you, too, look the very picture of health.”
“The miracle of St. Sunshine,” Hawke said with a smile. “A good tan obscures many sins. Plus a diet so rigid I can’t even lick a postage stamp.”
The Prince smiled and turned his focus to Congreve.
“And you must be the legendary former Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard? England’s own modern-day Sherlock Holmes, according to your friend Hawke. I’m delighted to have you here at Highgrove, alive and well.”
“Your Highness,” Congreve intoned, visibly stunned by the compliment, “I was deeply honored to be included.”
“Well. We’ll be getting a report on the incident from MI5 soon. It turns out one of the other invitees is the director of domestic intelligence at Five. She’s at the scene now and should be here shortly. Do be seated, won’t you?” Prince Charles said, coming around from behind his simple walnut desk. “Some refreshments after your journey? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Whatever you’d like.”
“Tea! Lovely idea!” Congreve blurted out, the proper form of address not quite ready to trip off the end of his tongue. Charles smiled inwardly. Over the course of his very public life, he’d seen every possible kind of effect that he had on “normal” people. Some of it, like Congreve’s, he found rather touching.
The Prince looked over at the footman standing by the door. “We’ll have tea, please, William,” he said.
“Your Highness,” the fellow said, then bowed, retreated backward a few steps, and slipped more quickly than mercury through a door only slightly ajar.
The future King of England crossed the paneled, high-ceilinged, book-lined room and took a well-worn wingback chair by the hearth. A spindly table beside it supported a precariously leaning stack of books. Hawke and Congreve had settled into two occasional chairs facing the fireplace. The tea service arrived within a minute or two, astounding Congreve.
This place operated like a tightly run battleship, Ambrose saw, and he was somehow pleased by the observation. Despite the hoary view most people took of the Royals, doddering around in their palaces, ringing for servants, he’d seen nothing of the like here at Highgrove. It was a spirited, tightly run ship that felt, somehow, lean and mean.
Charles looked carefully at his old friend Hawke, sizing him up for the tasks at hand.
Alex certainly looked fit
, well tanned, and, considering recent events, even relaxed, his legs crossed at the knee, looking for all the world like what he was—a man to the manner born—but hard inside, hard as local stone.
Chief Inspector Congreve was another story. A roundish chap, with rather flashy socks, thinning walnut-brown hair, and a well-tended moustache, his hands were shaking too badly to pick up a cup and have his tea poured, so Hawke did it for him. Whether it was from the horror of the recent incident or simply being in the presence of royalty, Charles could not discern.
Hawke poured himself a cup of steaming hot water, plain, no lemon, no sugar.
“A paragon of virtue these days,” the Prince of Wales said, smiling. “Abstaining even from tea?”
“Well, I’ve some serious mending to do and I damn well intend to do it. No caffeine for a while.”
Doesn’t even drink tea anymore? Congreve thought, staring at the man he thought he knew better than anyone on earth. Clearly not.
Leaning forward in his chair, the Prince of Wales said, “Alex, I made sure you and Chief Inspector Congreve were first to arrive so I might go over a few things with you both privately. After I’m finished with my little spiel, perhaps the three of us will have time for a short stroll in the gardens. There’ve been a lot of changes since last you were here and I’m most anxious for you to see everything. Does that suit?”
“Certainly, sir,” Hawke said, glancing at Congreve at this mention of gardens.
“An honor and a pleasure, Your Highness,” Congreve said, giving Hawke a squirrely “I told you so” glance. “I’m an avid gardener myself so it will be a special treat to see what wonders you’ve created.”
“I do love it so,” Charles said, getting to his feet and strolling across the room to the tall French windows overlooking his gardens.
Hawke turned toward Prince Charles. “May I ask whom else you’ve invited, Your Highness?”
“Indeed. I kept it a small group, deliberately. You both know most of them. Head of MI5, Lord Malmsey. Sahira Karim, the woman who was just behind you on the road. Sir David Trulove of MI6, of course, and another chap from MI6. A most delightful Indian fellow who’s on my board at the Prince’s Trust, one of my oldest, most trusted friends. His name is Montague Thorne, not his real name of course. Monty was orphaned in the Indian partition and adopted at a very early age by Lady Thorne, my neighbor here in the country. He’s an absolute fiend for gardening, out there digging away right now. Surely you know Montague, Alex?”
