The Lords' Day (retail) (39 page)

Most of the members of COBRA were still around the table, watching screens, waiting. Tibbetts, however, had retreated to his Ops Room. He wanted to be with his men. He sat in the corner, reading
once more his copy of the letter he had signed handing responsibility to the SAS.
By
this letter I formally pass over responsibility for the siege taking place within the House of Lords
to military authorities
. . . It made Tibbetts redundant, for the while, but he knew that it would not absolve him from what was to come. The letter was a prescription for legal murder, and his
signature was on it. He ran his forefinger over it, time and again, mechanically trying to smooth away the folds in the paper, and drank more coffee.

Brigadier Hastie also wished to be with his men. The SAS had set up their headquarters on the committee corridor in the Palace of Westminster, a floor above the entrance to the Lords. The final
briefing had already been delivered. On the wall, pinned across sumptuous Pugin wallpaper, were photographs taken from television cameras of each one of the gunmen, and across a table was spread a
large hand-crafted diagram of the chamber and its entrances. On it was marked the location of every single person, both captives and captors, all numbered or named. Hastie said little as his
squadron commander set about the task, occupying his time by listening intently as the various SAS sticks reported in, counting them off as they verified their locations and states of
readiness.

A million miles away in Washington DC, President Blythe Edwards had just received news of the impending attack and was going through moments of torment that there was no chapel in the White
House. A hundred and thirty-two rooms, but not a single place to get down on her knees and pray. She knew she needed God to help her face the coming trial; she had interfered, meddled in the
affairs of others, been arrogant, and it had all gone wrong. The American sin. She sat on the edge of her bed, looking out across the dawn that was emerging feebly above the Potomac and watching
grey skies weep. Slowly, like the raindrops that were trickling down the windowpane, she fell to her knees. She clasped her hands together and prayed to her Lord that she would find the strength to
get through this day, and that her son would find protection. And when she had finished with that, she asked for forgiveness, not just for herself but for those who were about to commit this
ludicrous, insane act of carnage at the moment when Daud Gul was almost home. They would need God’s forgiveness, those people, for they’d never receive a crumb of forgiveness from
anyone else.

Meanwhile, back in London, Tricia Willcocks climbed into a fresh set of clothes and began toying with the phrases she would use to mark the end of the siege. Unrestrained joy or the most sombre
sadness. Whatever the outcome, she would be prepared.

12.15 p.m.

When they strapped him in for the second time, Daud Gul simply closed his eyes, ready for whatever might come. He had gone limp, couldn’t obstruct them but wouldn’t
cooperate, so they had treated him like a sack of rice and dumped him in the rear hard seat, tightening his restraints more fiercely than ever. This was a new plane, no vomit, just the stench of
fuel once more, and a different pilot, more talkative, not filled with sullen hatred like the last American. Daud Gul looked out from the cockpit and saw nothing but water. Despite himself, he felt
panic rising once more in his throat.

When the steam catapult of the
Abraham Lincoln
threw the plane into the air he was thrown back against his headrest and he hit nearly 4 Gs, but it didn’t last. Soon they were
climbing once more up the side of a sky mountain, heading for the stars. He couldn’t see properly, grey patches had formed at the edges of his vision, and he shook his head trying to regain
his senses.

‘If you’re gonna throw up again, don’t do it in your helmet,’ the voice of the pilot interrupted. ‘You do that and you’ll choke.’

But even as he spoke, the plane was easing back, levelling out, no longer pointing vertically. And as they flew on, one of the screens embedded in the instrument board in front of him began to
change. Instead of showing nothing but emptiness, it began to give way to something that appeared harder, more substantial.

For the first time, Daud Gul spoke. ‘What is that?’

‘That?’ the pilot responded. ‘Why, that’s land, Mr Gul. The coastline of Pakistan. You’re practically home.’

12.25 p.m.

At a signal that was relayed to him from Hastie’s squadron commander, Harry re-entered the chamber, pushing his trolley. He was needed; the hostages were growing impatient
in expectation of imminent release, and with their impatience had come appetite. Masood’s men stared at the battered figure, his bloodied face, his broken hand, his now badly stained shirt,
but he had become familiar and they paid him no special attention. Around the chamber hung an air of quiet anticipation that had raised the humour and resilience of most of those there, but the
mood hadn’t infected everyone. Elizabeth sat, impassive as always, inspecting Harry as though seeking some sign, as if doubting the face value of what she saw; did she know, or sense, that
all was not as it seemed? The American ambassador was dark-eyed and sombre, the Prime Minister carried a haunted expression as if he was searching for something that lay a thousand miles in the
distance, while nearby the two sons had faces bathed white in pain.

Yet Archie Wakefield’s eyes were bright, searching. Harry nodded. Slowly, cautiously so that the gunmen could read nothing into the gesture, Archie pulled his ear.

And as Harry pushed his pile of food and drink still further into the chamber, he snagged the attention of the royal protection officer by staring at him with an intensity that screamed in
warning. The officer didn’t understand but he wasn’t required to understand; he needed only to be alert. He sat up, braced his shoulders, stretched his arms, more in curiosity than
expectation, but that was enough. He was back in the picture.

Harry went about his task of distributing the supplies with woeful slowness but he had a ready excuse in his physical condition and the fatigue that was running through them all, yet he
couldn’t stretch it out for ever. He couldn’t afford to raise suspicions. He grew anxious. He looked once more across at Archie, willing him on, begging him to make his move –
everything was hanging on him, surely he knew that? The bomb must be dealt with first. But Archie sat there, impassive, and when Harry’s despairing eyes hit him he did nothing but tug at his
bloody ear once more.

Oh, God, it wasn’t going to happen. Archie had frozen, wasn’t up for it. The attack would have to start with the bomb still in place. And one of the terrorists was now eyeing Harry
with more than idle mistrust, waving him on with the muzzle of his gun. This wasn’t going to work.

12.42 p.m.

As Harry began to feel despair biting at his heels, half a world away and for the first time, Daud Gul was sensing that surge of excitement that told him he had won. His plane
grew lighter as it burned up its fuel, flying ever faster towards its destination, at almost twelve miles a minute, and although Daud Gul knew none of this he could see far below him the shapes and
shadows of land, and knew it was Pakistan.

‘How much longer?’ he asked.

‘If we maintain this tail wind, thirty-six minutes,’ came the reply.

Thirty-six minutes. And in little more than that he would be back in his mountains, where the last few months would seem as a passing, feverish dream.

Hastie knew as much, too. Time was running out. His attention kept switching from the chamber to his watch, and back again, knowing that they must soon, very soon, wash their hands of Archie
Wakefield and go it alone, knowing that the consequences of doing so would be some shade of disaster. As his eyes flicked back once more to the screen, he saw the Queen seeking approval from Masood
to use the facilities of their makeshift toilet. She rose in her seat, dignified, slowly, as befitted an elderly lady who had spent a night in extreme discomfort.

And as she made her way to the closet at the side of the throne, shadowed as always by the gunman in the explosive jacket, in another part of the chamber Hastie saw Archie Wakefield assist the
struggling Celia Blessing to her feet and follow.

12.45 a.m.

The field telephone in the chamber rang. Masood picked up the receiver and nestled it to his ear. It was Mike Tibbetts. The police man had considered it only right that he
should volunteer for this unpleasant duty.

‘Masood, I thought you’d like to know. The aircraft with your passenger on board will be landing in Peshawar in approximately thirty minutes.’

‘Excellent.’ For the first time through the siege the young tribesman appeared to show excitement.

‘I think we need to discuss the arrangements when he gets there.’

‘They will be very simple,’ Masood responded, and began to bark animated instructions into the phone.

12.47 p.m.

The closets behind the throne had no internal lighting. As a result, it was necessary to leave the door ajar in order to allow those inside sufficient light to find their way
around. Many of those in the chamber found this situation embarrassing and lacking in dignity, but none had to withstand the humiliation that was inflicted upon Elizabeth. Where she went, the
gunman and his jacket followed, not just up to the door but even inside the closet itself. She tolerated it without complaint; she had no choice in the matter and in any event it was no worse than
the conditions many people of her age had to withstand. With so many people in the chamber the closets were kept busy, and occasionally a small queue developed, waiting, although that somehow never
applied to the Queen herself. Masood would permit no more than one or two people to linger, but on this occasion the next in line was Archie and the clearly distressed and frail Baroness Blessing,
whom he supported with an arm around her shoulder. They seemed an incongruous pairing, he so swollen, almost bloated, and she with a frame so like that of a sparrow that she all but disappeared
within the folds of his arm. They glanced around them, seemed to exchange a whisper, almost a smile.

As the door to the closet opened wider to allow Elizabeth and her escort to emerge, Archie and Celia Blessing were no more than four feet away. Archie straightened, and seemed to grow several
inches in stature. The gunman hovered in the doorway, immediately behind the Queen, almost touching her. It was time.

In a scene that would be replayed for as long as anyone wished to define the meaning of sacrifice, Archie’s body seemed to shake and he hurled his entire seventeen-stone bulk at the much
smaller man. Archie was neither well nor fit but it was an unequal contest. They both tumbled into the closet. As they did so the Baroness, now remarkably recovered, grabbed the Queen by the arm
and threw her to one side. Elizabeth fell heavily, dragging Celia Blessing behind her, while Archie and his victim disappeared from view.

12.47 p.m.

TATP is an explosive that can come close to matching the power of TNT, but it doesn’t react in the same manner. TNT creates its power by breaking up its molecules so that
the fragments then recombine to release a large amount of energy, while TATP explodes in a very different way, breaking each of its solid molecules down into separate molecules of gas. These gas
molecules of ozone and acetone don’t react or combine with each other but in the first instant of their creation they occupy the same volume as was originally occupied by the solid explosive.
Yet they are gas, and can take the place of the solid only at a far, far higher pressure. The gases expand outwards, forcing air and any other surrounding materials away at vast velocities.

The first surrounding materials that the explosion encountered were the two bodies. The gunman was beneath, on his back, flattened by Archie, whose huge frame lay like a smothering blanket on
top. Death for both of them was instantaneous, but not in Archie’s case purposeless. His body absorbed some of the blast wave of the bomb, reducing its impact, but what remained looked for
the route of least resistance, which was through the open door, blasting it off its hinges and sending it cartwheeling into the chamber. The next weakest link was the roof of the closet, little
more than timber and not load bearing, and this was fractured into splinters that flew into the air, some of which became embedded in the roof of the chamber itself. But the walls, the walls, it
was the walls that did it! The walls of the closet were generously thick, particularly that one which stood against the throne, for it was this wall that supported the vast golden edifice of the
canopy behind the throne. It cracked and crumbled and large amounts of debris were blown from it, but its heavy Victorian carcass proved wonderfully resilient. And it was this tough, resistant wall
that stood between the bomb and those in the chamber. The main force of the explosion went to the side, and up in the air, not out across the red leather benches.

Yet, even so, the damage it caused was substantial. As the bomb gave up its life it created a huge amount of noise and dust. Debris flew everywhere, causing many injuries in the chamber. Most of
those on their feet were knocked over, and while the hostages found some protection behind the leather benches they were all thrown into a state of deep confusion. What most of them hadn’t
realised was that the bomb was not the first explosion to take place. In the fragment of time that passed between Archie’s assault on the gunman and the detonation of the jacket, explosions
were taking place at many points around them, but so close together in time that for most they melted into one. The SAS had placed frame charges against all the side doors that led into the
chamber, both on the ground floor and also the doors that gave access into the galleries. The charges exploded simultaneously, triggering the booby traps in the Coca-Cola cans. These later proved
also to have been made of TATP with detonators fashioned, as Hastie had predicted, from nothing more complicated than toyshop party poppers.