The Lords' Day (retail) (26 page)

‘Anyway, these companies that have been placing bets on the Stock Exchange indices. All shells, of course. About thirty of the little blighters.’

‘Who runs them?’

‘With these sort of shell companies you’ll find nothing but names on a brass plate. By law all the directors have to be local residents, but that’s only for the sake of the
paperwork. The beneficial ownership is always elsewhere.’

‘Such as?’

‘Mmmm, can’t be sure, not yet. The local boys have still got a few doors to kick down and files to ransack. But they say it’s got a very powerful whiff of Russia.’

‘What?’

‘It’s all a bit coincidental at this stage, but you can usually smell the elephant long before he treads on your toes. Now, this might not have passed by your periscope, but later
today the Russians were planning to float off another huge chunk of their metal mining industry on the London Exchange – you know, copper, magnesium, aluminium. This is really big business.
They were hoping to raise more than a couple of billion pounds, but they can’t now, of course, with the market falling apart. So, in a word, they’ve been stuffed, as tight as a
Christmas turkey. The value of their existing shares has taken a huge hammering, while those investors who were lucky enough to sell them short are sitting on a killing.’

‘And?’

‘Now here’s that magical coincidence, old boy. The companies who have been selling the Russians short—’

‘Are the same shell companies in the Caribbean who have been betting on the siege.’

‘Precisely. Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

‘If you believe in fairies.’

‘So it’s back to the gulag for Boris and Yuri. Come a real cropper, they have; it’ll cost them several vast fortunes. Bears with a very sore head.’

‘But who, Sloppy, who’s behind it? There are several hundred million Russians, we need to get a bit closer than that.’

‘One slice of salami at a time, old chum.’

‘Not good enough. We need the whole sausage, Sloppy. Get that, and maybe we can finish all this without a bloodbath. We need a name.’

‘It’s just not possible. The world out there sleeps, they won’t jump out of bed just because we ask them. The shell companies in the Caribbean are owned, inevitably, by other
shell companies. It’s like the dance of the seven veils, goes on for ever. It’ll take days, maybe weeks before we get to the bottom of it.’

Harry banged the table with his fist. ‘Those poor bastards in the Lords only have a few hours!’

‘Yes, I know. I feel wretched. I can only do my best.’

Harry hauled back hard on the anger that was threatening to overtake him. It wasn’t his friend’s fault. ‘Thanks, Sloppy.’

‘I’m so bloody sorry, Harry.’

As he closed his phone connection, Harry felt overwhelmed by exhaustion and hopelessness. His shoulders hunched and he seemed physically to shrink in his chair.

‘You still chasing shadows?’ Tibbetts asked, sipping at yet another mug of coffee.

‘Yes. But we think they’re Russian shadows.’

‘Sounds like progress.’ He looked up sharply from his steaming coffee. ‘But it has to be a Russian with a British connection.’

‘Narrows it down from a few hundred million to a few hundred thousand, I suppose. More progress.’ Harry sighed sardonic ally.

‘But what are the bloody Russians doing wrapped up in all this? Doesn’t make a bit of sense that I can see.’ The policeman bit his thumb and winced, hoping the pain might help
bring some order to his thoughts. When he opened his eyes once more, he found a young detective constable standing in front of him. The young officer was hesitant, shifting awkwardly from one foot
to the other.

‘Sorry, sir, for interrupting. Couldn’t help overhearing. Something about the Russians.’

‘DC Witherstock, isn’t it?’ Tibbetts enquired.

‘Yessir.’

‘Well, Witherstock, what about the Russians?’

‘It’s just that . . . something strange has been going on up in Highgate. There’s a tramp in the local nick who’s walked in with a coat stuffed with fifty-pound notes.
Several thousand pounds sewn into the lining, apparently. Clearly not his.’

‘So?’

‘Also inside the lining were three passports. They were in different names but evidently of the same man. A chap they think is actually Russian. Called Bulgakov.’

‘Lavrenti Bulgakov?’ Harry snapped. ‘He’s one of the Russian exiles we let squander their money around London.’

‘Seems so, sir. I just thought there might be, you know, some connection.’

‘Yes, but what?’

‘Dunno, sir.’

‘Then we’d better find out. And sharp. Get Bulgakov brought in,’ Tibbetts ordered, ‘wherever he is.’

‘Oh, we can’t do that, sir.’

‘And why the bloody hell not?’

‘Seems he’s dead. They just found a body. Matches the passports.’

‘Bugger!’ Tibbetts snapped in frustration.

‘But that’s wonderful!’ Harry interjected, leaping to his feet, his energies suddenly restored.

‘That the man you’ve been searching for all evening is dead?’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Mike. Like one of those Russian
matryuoshka
dolls – you know, you take the lid off and there’s always something hidden inside it.
I’ll bet what’s left of my pension fund after this miserable day that Bulgakov is mixed up in the siege. A man of many passports could surely find a few fake IDs for Masood and his
chums and—’ Suddenly the outburst of enthusiasm drained into the sand and he froze. Reluctantly, he let slip a curse. ‘It only leaves us with one question, Mike.’

‘Which is?’

‘Who the hell killed Bulgakov?’

‘A mystery that must wait, my friend,’ Tibbetts replied, reading from the pager that had begun vibrating on his belt. ‘
La Tricia
calls. The royal summons.’

‘I don’t think there’s a vacancy for Queen, yet.’

‘No. But I suspect she thinks there may soon be one for Prime Minister.’

3.53 a.m.

The war council had gathered in the COBRA briefing room. It included the intelligence services, defence chiefs, junior ministers from several ministries, a handful of the most
senior civil servants, including one from the Attorney General’s office to ensure fair play while they figured out how they would kill the terrorists. Every one of them looked drained and
most were in various stages of dishevelment, even Tibbetts, as he searched for a second wind. Harry still had ketchup on his shirtsleeves, and no tie. The police commander had smuggled him in;
Willcocks pretended not to notice, at least for the moment. She had other battles to fight.

‘We have eight hours left before the deadline,’ she announced, rapping the table with a pen to gather their attention. ‘We have to decide on our course of action. I’ve
asked Brigadier Hastie to give us another briefing.’

The Commander of Special Forces stood up and walked to the screen on the wall at one end of the room with its picture from inside the chamber. His red hair stood out incongruously against the
claret of the leather benches. ‘This is an interesting situation, Home Secretary,’ he began in typically understated military fashion. ‘As I told you earlier, we have difficulties
with the exceptionally high windows, the overhangs of the balconies and the fact that the doors are all booby-trapped. But we can get round those. The camera feeding the television pictures is
mounted in a specially constructed platform set high in the public gallery, which is at the opposite end of the chamber to the throne. It’s inevitably compact, only room for one man, but in
the last couple of hours we’ve managed to get a sniper inside who has a full view of everything. Took a risk getting him there, but it’s paid off. And the Victorians were wonderful
craftsmen; Barrie designed this building with all sorts of shafts for ventilation and heating. We’ve managed to get another couple of snipers inside these, which gives them visual over
different parts of the chamber through access panels. It’s a problem that much of the rest of the chamber is extremely stoutly built, so we’ll have to go in through the doors, blow
them. Follow up with grenades – we call them flash-bangs – designed to create maximum confusion. There is, of course, also a royal protection officer still inside, but it’s
possible he might be as disorientated as we hope the enemy will be, so we can’t rely on him. We estimate the entire operation will be accomplished in no more than forty seconds.’

‘And casualties?’ Willcocks asked.

Hastie sucked his lips. ‘Earlier you will recall I estimated a ninety per cent survival rate.’

‘But that will have improved now you have your men in position.’ She made it sound like an instruction.

‘Indeed, Home Secretary. However, there’s still a problem. The enemy appears to be not only well armed but also well trained. Established excellent firing positions here, here, here
and here,’ he said, pointing to the screen. ‘We can’t assume they’re amateurs. If we also assume that they are dedicated, willing to give their lives and ready to act with
maximum prejudice . . . well, it makes it much more difficult.’

‘How many will die, brigadier?’ she pressed.

‘There are too many imponderables to be specific. If we could use the windows, or have more men in position, or knew we could rely on the protection officer . . .’

She leaned forward, waiting to pounce. Everyone else in the room shifted uncomfortably, coming to the edge of their seats.

‘Brigadier, I haven’t asked you here for a description of how to dance a waltz. I want to know your best estimate, and I want to know it now.’

He returned her fierce stare, but his voice had dropped. ‘I believe the survival rate might be slightly higher than ninety per cent, Home Secretary. But that is unlikely to include Her
Majesty.’

‘That is unacceptable!’ She banged the table in irritation. ‘Have none of you found a way of saving the Queen?’

‘There is still no way around the problem of the explosive jacket. If the terrorist holding it is willing to die, then so will the Queen. It’s as simple as that. If she could manage
to escape, even for a few seconds . . ’

‘She’s eighty-four years old, for pity’s sake.’

‘We can take the terrorist out, but that action in itself will in all probability trigger the device. We have to assume it’s likely to work.’

‘Then find another way.’

‘I cannot, Home Secretary.’ He stood in front of the screen, defiant. ‘And because of the unique circumstances, and particularly the risk that any action will pose to the
safety of the Sovereign, I’m sure you will understand that I will require a written order before I proceed.’

Along the table, the Chief of Defence Staff was indicating his agreement.

They all turned their eyes on Tricia. She had known it would come to this, the blame game, the parcelling out of responsibility, allocating guilt for what was to happen. Someone would have to
pay for the killing of the Queen, and if they had their way, they would leave her to swing on her own. The sacrificial lamb.

But they underestimated Tricia Willcocks. She was a survivor, and even if she couldn’t save her Sovereign, there was a chance she might yet save herself. She was one step ahead of them
all. Slowly she began shaking her head. ‘No. You cannot.’

‘Home Secretary?’

‘You cannot proceed.’

‘But what are the alternatives?’ someone asked.

‘You cannot proceed – yet. If we order an attack that results in the death of the head of state, without it being clear even to the most jaundiced eye that there was no other option,
then each and every one of us will be as culpable as those who signed the execution warrant of Charles I. Go in too soon and it would be a disaster. We are staring history in the face, gentlemen,
we must hold our nerve.’

‘We should go now, while they’re sleepy, catch them off guard,’ Hastie said. ‘If we delay, it will only get worse.’

‘I disagree. It might make our position very much easier, brigadier. Justify everything you may be forced to do, no matter what the outcome. If we wait, we test the terrorists, and they
will give us the absolute proof that we had no other choice.’

‘What more proof do you need, Home Secretary?’

Suddenly they had all caught up with her, and as they came to understanding, they felt sick. All eyes went to the screen, and to the spot where Magnus and William-Henry, the two youngest
hostages, were sitting. The gunmen had said these boys would be the next to die, and if that came to pass, their innocent blood would wash away all guilt for what happened thereafter.

3.58 a.m.

‘A
RE YOU ASLEEP, MAMA
?’

She said nothing, but pursed her lips in a withering expression of denial.

‘Some seem to have managed it,’ the son protested in his own defence. Charles Philip Arthur George, the Prince of Wales and, alongside that, the Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall,
Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Lord of the Isles and Butt of Much Criticism, stretched out his stiffening legs and surveyed the scene in front of them.

‘Then they have a better conscience than I,’ his mother replied.

‘You’ve no reason for reproach.’

‘They might die, these people, all because of me. And they know it. If I weren’t here, then none of this would have happened.’

‘These thugs would have found some other excuse.’

‘Perhaps, but today I bear the responsibility.’

‘As every day.’

They were speaking in whispers, leaning towards each other, conscious of the gunman immediately behind them and trying not to attract attention, looking out at the others rather than at each
other, as they had done for so much of their lives.

‘I am afraid, Charles.’

He shifted in his seat. ‘You – afraid?’

‘Not for myself, of course, not that, but for what this day might do to us. The Family. The monarchy. I fear it might bring about the end of it all. The people might say that if this is
the price we have to pay, then we no longer wish it.’

‘I’ve often thought precisely that myself,’ he responded wistfully.

She shot a caustic look at him from the corner of her eye.