December (36 page)

TUESDAY 23 DECEMBER

Alex stepped up to the small gate in the high wall and knocked carefully.

He looked round at Col, Yamba and Arkady and shrugged. They were standing behind him on the busy street wondering what would happen next. It was a week after they had flown out of Moscow, and they were entering Buckingham Palace via a door at the back of the large palace grounds.

Alex had no idea what was going to happen inside. He had done several stints of ceremonial duty at BP as a junior Household Cavalry officer in the past, so he knew that the Queen was away at Sandringham in Norfolk, where she traditionally spent the Christmas break, and that the palace shut down in her absence. Harrington had phoned him to say that some recognition would be made of their efforts but he had sounded uncomfortable and had not given any further details.

The surviving members of the team were all dressed in their best suits and had been bewildered by the news that they were going to the palace. However, any feelings of celebration had been muted by the knowledge of the two other gatherings that were taking place on the same day in different parts of the world.

Their thoughts were with the small family group huddled together in a dusty cemetery on the outskirts of Dagaragu in Northern Territory. The Bridges family were a tough lot but Pete’s father couldn’t help crying when the shattered body of his son had been returned in its refrigerated steel coffin, with no explanation as to where and why his boy had been killed.

Magnus’s father had died years ago, so only his sister was there to put her arm around his mother in the tiny Church of Norway graveyard, on the north shore looking out over Sognefjorden. A cold wind whipped snow around them from the mountains behind the white timber church. Mrs Løndahl was a formidable woman, but she had not expected to outlive her son. She cried as Magnus was lowered into a hole cut out of the frozen ground. She too would never know what had happened to him; his body had been returned with a brief government death certificate.

The group of men who did know their story would never speak about it.

The garden gate in the palace wall opened. Harrington’s large reddened face peered nervously out as he ushered them through and then hurriedly shut the door.

‘This way, Devereux.’ He sounded resentful, barely acknowledging Alex and not even deigning to look at the rest of his team. He pulled the scarf tighter around his overcoat collar and turned and led them through the snow-covered gardens towards the distant palace.

The whole place was deserted. Harrington led them along the winding path through the bare trees to the south end of the enormous rear façade and in through a side door. Alex’s mind was whirring, trying to work out where they were going. They paused in an ornate antechamber next to a huge wooden door. It was cold in the room, despite the
fact that the energy blockade had been lifted a week ago; with the monarch away, no one had turned the heating on.

Four sheets of white paper were laid out on a polished desk at one side, each with a pen on it. Alex took in the British Army crest at the top of each page.

‘Right, all of you, sign here,’ Harrington said gruffly to them and pointed at the papers. ‘You’ll be discharged immediately afterwards, so don’t get any ideas.’ He glared at Alex, obviously mindful of the last time he had signed an official document in front of him.

They all dutifully scratched their names on the sheets. Harrington looked on in thinly veiled disgust and then checked each one carefully.

He grunted, straightened up and looked them each carefully in the eye. ‘You will behave with the highest decorum and
never
,’ he held up a warning index finger, ‘speak of this!’

He turned, straightened his shoulders and opened the double doors with a flourish.

They followed his marching figure into the vast ballroom, towards its far end, where a small woman stood on a dais. She was wrapped up in an overcoat against the cold and flanked by two Gurkha orderly officers, her equerry and the Defence Secretary. As a woman who had stayed in London throughout the Blitz, she understood a thing or two about a national crisis, and she had not hung about when the time came to honour the men who had resolved it.

Harrington stamped to attention a few feet from the dais and saluted. Alex was startled but forced himself to do likewise. As each of the others realised who was in the room they all came to attention in a line along the steps.

The equerry was in shooting clothes and pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of his Barbour. Despite the necessary precautions to conceal the monarch’s return to the
capital, he sounded suitably official as he read out the list: ‘Major Alexander Devereux, The Household Cavalry, for outstanding leadership and bravery under fire, the Victoria Cross.’

Alex marched forward like an automaton and stood stiffly to attention as she pinned the small grey cross onto his suit breast.

‘Regimental Sergeant-Major Yamba Douala, 32 Battalion, South African Defence Force, the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, for outstanding bravery under fire.’

Yamba towered over her but kept his hard eyes fixed on the red drapes behind, before executing a sharp right turn and marching away as Col stepped forward.

‘Regimental Sergeant-Major Colin Thwaites, Second Battalion, The Parachute Regiment, the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, for outstanding bravery under fire.’

Finally, Arkady stomped forward in an ill-fitting suit, ‘Captain Arkady Voloshin, Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, the Distinguished Flying Cross, for courage whilst flying in the face of the enemy.’

The irony of this last award was not lost on Arkady, but he kept his face rigid.

When he had returned to the line, the onlookers gave a polite round of applause, and, after a quiet nod of her head, the sovereign withdrew.

Harrington was obviously relieved that the highly irregular ceremony was over and led them out to the antechamber where an unseen hand had removed the original sheets and laid out four discharge papers that they duly signed.

He then led them out of the palace and through the snow-covered gardens to the back gate. He unlocked it and then looked at Alex in a grudging way and offered his hand.

‘Well done, Devereux, good work. I hope I never see you again.’

Alex looked straight at him for a moment, then shook his hand and said in a polite voice, ‘Thank you very much. I hope I never see you again either.’

They walked out and Harrington shut the gate firmly behind them.

The four men emerged onto the south end of Grosvenor Place and stood awkwardly on the pavement. Crowds of last-minute Christmas shoppers pushed past them and the traffic roared through the slush on the road. After the energy blockade had been lifted the country was rushing to catch up with all the usual mundane aspects of the season.

The men were bewildered by the sudden change of pace. Alex looked round at them and tried to think what to do next.

‘Pub?’

They nodded and he searched his memories of pubcrawls from his times on ceremonial duty. That felt like a long time ago now. Some forgotten instinct led him across the road, then left into the quiet, residential Lower Belgrave Street and straight to the Plumbers Arms. It was a traditional boozer and, mid-afternoon, was deserted. Alex ordered four pints of bitter and they retreated to an alcove.

When he had finally sat down and drunk half a pint in one long pull, Colin felt able to speak.

‘Flippin’ ’eck,’ he muttered and stared off into the distance along with the others. ‘That were really her, weren’t i’?’

Yamba nodded thoughtfully. ‘She is very small,’ he said.

Alex pulled the black case from his pocket and flipped it open to look at the small grey medal with its crimson ribbon.

The VC.

He was in a state of shock, but was still aware that sadness
also sat next to them in the alcove. He put the medal away again and looked round at the others. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to them.’

They nodded and drank, thinking of the other two.

They quickly finished their drinks, stood up and walked out onto the street. True to form, they kept it short: smiles, handshakes and muttered goodbyes. They split up and headed off into the Christmas crowds.

It had started snowing again. Alex turned up the collar of his overcoat and walked away.