The Lords' Day (retail) (31 page)

‘There’s no dignity in being butchered like a sheep in the field.’

‘Please, Charles, it will not come to that.’

‘Oh, but it already has for me, every time I open a newspaper! There’s not a single part of my life that hasn’t been stripped from me and laid out to bleach in the sun. Even
Christ was only nailed to his cross once.’

‘Charles!’ she rebuked, but he had no intention of being deterred. He stirred restlessly in his seat.

‘All I have to do is look over a hedge and I’m accused of interfering.’

‘You shouldn’t mind the rabble.’

‘But I do, I mind so very much. Being made into a public spectacle by those whose only interest is to find some piece of malice to fill their newspapers, when every crumb of nonsense is
grabbed by them as eagerly as they lay their hands on a passing waitress. They are bastards.’ He spoke slowly, whispering his scorn, the words born not from a momentary anger but a lifetime
of pain.

‘They do seem to have adopted their own divine right to rule,’ she conceded.

‘How I would love to get our own back, eh? Just this once.’

‘We should pass a law. This Christmas, around the table at Sandringham. How about that?’ Her tone was light, trying to lift his humour.

‘The Royal Retribution Act.’

‘We can take turns at writing a clause each.’

‘Would you let me start?’

‘No, I think that honour should go to your father.’

‘You strike a hard bargain.’

‘Not too hard, I trust.’

He offered a wan smile, and for the moment the dark curtain was drawn aside, but soon he was back tormenting his signet ring once more. When he spoke again, his words came slowly, set deep in
earnest.

‘In the next life, I want to be something simple. Not a prince, just something very ordinary. A gamekeeper, perhaps.’

‘You believe in that, don’t you, in reincarnation?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know—’

‘Yes, I know, Mama. I’m also next in line to be head of the Church of England and I shouldn’t hold with such mystical nonsense.’

‘Just don’t go preaching it from any pulpit.’

‘I won’t. You know, it’s never been easy, walking that tightrope between my conscience and the constitution, but even a prince should be allowed to sit at the same table as his
conscience occasionally. Above all a man has to be true to himself.’

‘And to his duty,’ she said, returning to her favourite theme.

‘Ah, yes.
Ich Dien
.’ He sighed. ‘But what is duty unless it’s built on conscience?’

She was wondering where all his metaphysics was leading when suddenly he stiffened and grimaced in pain.

‘Charles, what is it?’

‘My bloody back. Killing me. Forgive me, bad joke. But I can’t sit here any longer.’

‘I fear we must.’

He closed his eyes in momentary contemplation, struggling with his pain, before continuing. ‘No, Mama. What I mean is I can’t sit here and watch those boys being murdered. My
conscience – or is it my duty? I really can’t tell which – whatever it is, I won’t sit here
uselessly
and watch them suffer.’

‘What are you talking about?’ An edge of alarm had crept into her voice.

‘They remind me so much of our boys, with their whole lives ahead of them. I can’t allow that to be wasted, not if I can stop it.’

‘But . . . how can you stop this?’ From the sorrowful, defiant look in his eyes she thought she knew. ‘No, Charles, I will not allow it.’

‘As my Queen?’

‘As your mother,’ she pleaded.

‘And yet, Mama, you are my Queen and I owe you duty. But I owe those boys duty, too.’

‘Please, Charles!’ Tears were gathering in her eyes.

‘Don’t cry, Mama,’ he said softly. ‘You are the Queen. You are not allowed to show weakness, remember.’ He was gently teasing her, while she was struggling to
control herself.

‘I am your mother, Charles. Sometimes such things must come before simply being royal.’

He smiled, full of affection. ‘At last, I have found someone who understands me.’

‘You cannot do this, Charles. I am your mother,’ she repeated.

‘And I your dutiful and most loving son.’

He sat quietly for a moment, composing his thoughts. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? She always said I would never be King.’

‘Who?’

But he said no more.

He reached over, and for a brief moment touched his mother’s hand. With that, he stood up.

6.38 a.m.

It was the rule set by the gunmen that the hostages didn’t move around without permission, so when the prince stood and stepped from his throne it attracted immediate
attention. He walked slowly, with heavy, reluctant feet. It seemed to take for ever for him to reach the bottom of the steps. Masood was waiting for him.

‘And you want?’

The prince stood erect, as dignified in his uniform as the uncomfortable night had allowed, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. ‘I wish to take the place of the boys,’ he said
softly.

‘Forgive me, I’m not sure I understand.’

The prince ran a tongue across his dry lips. ‘If you must shoot anyone, then let it be me, not them. I offer myself in their place.’

Masood eyed him with curiosity. ‘You want to be die? That is most noble of you.’

‘Noble?’ The prince raised his chin and attempted a sardonic laugh. ‘Not really. I just want to be a gamekeeper.’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Just do the sensible bloody thing and let me replace them.’

‘But what sense is there in that?’

‘Sense? You ask about sense?’ Suddenly his voice rose in resentment and the veins on his neck began to stand out above his collar. ‘I have just watched you club a man
half-senseless for trying to help the sick! Where’s the sense in that?’

‘Mukhtar’s mother was sick, too. She had a fever, with no medicine, and could not run when the air raid began. Your planes blew her small house apart. When Mukhtar found her, he
needed help to make sure it was his mother and not one of the other women of the village. Perhaps now you understand.’

‘Then I grieve for him. But of all the people in this place, those boys are the youngest, the least guilty, the most blameless of any of us. In the name of whatever God you worship, you
must surely realise that it cannot be right for them to die. So spare them.’

‘And take you.’

‘You want a trophy, I’m a much bigger one.’

‘Mr Wales – do you mind if I call you Mr Wales? My people never got into the habit of bending their knee to your family, no matter how hard your soldiers tried to teach
us.’

‘Names can’t hurt. Call me what the devil you like.’

‘Then, Mr Wales, and with respect’ – and, for the first time, Masood’s voice showed neither mockery nor anger but a tinge of admiration – ‘I decline your
offer.’

‘But why? Do you have no mercy?’

‘Mercy? Is that what you have shown my people? You still don’t understand, do you? We never wanted this war with you, we didn’t start it, but it has been forced on us year
after year until our villages are destroyed and those we love murdered before our eyes.’ Despite the words, his voice was remarkably controlled. ‘And now you talk to me about mercy. We
are way beyond that, I’m afraid. It is no longer the quality of mercy that matters but the quality of death, and its quantity, and the fuss it will cause. That, I think, has been your
strategy in my country for many years, so now we follow it.’

‘Spare the sons. Let me stand in their place – please!’

‘We are all the sons of our fathers, and like all creatures there will come a time for you and for me to die. But their time must come first.’

The prince examined the man in front of him, searching for some spark of clemency, but as he stared he found only cold Himalayan stone. ‘You believe in God?’

‘Of course. We are all God’s children.’

‘Then I would like to meet this God of yours, to see if I can understand his quality of mercy.’

‘You seem in such a hurry to meet your Maker, but you must wait a little longer, I fear.’

The prince knew there was little purpose in arguing. This battle was lost. And with that understanding, the courage and resilience he had spent so many hours assembling began to flood away. He
could feel his legs growing unsteady; it must be a twinge from his aching back, he told himself. He was shaking as he climbed back up the steps to his throne. He prayed no one would notice.

6.43 a.m.

They had delayed their game of Russian roulette because they had thought it best to wait until the gunmen were fully awake, but the beating up of Harry showed there was no point
in hesitating any longer. As Tricia had sat and waited for the moment, she had begun to feel increasingly powerless and insecure. It was all very well putting on a tough front, but she knew that
the penalties for failure at a time like this would be overwhelming, not just for her, but for many of the hostages, too. Her fate was linked inextricably with theirs, and her self-confidence had
been worn down by exhaustion and her bruising encounter with COBRA. She had loaded the gun, but was relieved that someone else would have to use it for her.

The task fell to a detective inspector with SCD7, the Met Police Hostage and Crisis Negotiation Unit. His name was Parry. He had an excellent record but this situation was way beyond his usual
orbit – most of his work involved preventing someone committing suicide, not killing dozens of others. In any event, negotiation requires dialogue, yet Masood had shown himself totally
unwilling to play ball. He had demanded almost nothing from the authorities except for the release of his leader and the supply of two chemical toilets, and Parry had little to offer him in return
apart from a choice of filling in his sandwiches. It had been a barren exercise, about as useful as testing a concrete parachute, as Parry had put it. Yet now, perhaps, he had a chance.

He made the call from the Ops Room, routed through the parliamentary post office. Tibbetts was listening on an extension, and everyone had eyes fixed on the screen. It seemed to take an age
before they saw Masood walk across to answer the buzzing phone.

‘Good morning, Masood, I’ve got something interesting for you,’ Parry began, concentrating hard on the briefing notes spread out in front of him.

Masood gave no answer. He needed more bait.

‘We know about your Russian contact,’ Parry said.

At last he bit. ‘And which Russian would that be?’

‘Bulgakov.’

Again a silence, but this time it seemed to have a more significant quality. Then: ‘I wish to talk with your superior, Mr Tibbetts.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment,’ Parry responded, trying to retain control of the conversation, ‘he’s tied up in a meeting.’

‘Don’t treat me like a fool, of course he’s there. He wouldn’t let you talk to me like this on your own.’

Damn the man. He knew this game, too. Parry’s heartbeat quickened, trying to force oxygen and inspiration into his brain, but it was hopeless. Across the room Tibbetts knew he had to make
an instant decision. He wasn’t a trained negotiator and this was all too important to be left to an amateur, but what choice did he have? Reluctantly, he shrugged his shoulders and
nodded.

‘I’ll see if I can get him out of his meeting,’ Parry said forlornly.

Tibbetts waited a few seconds, trying to give his colleague a little cover, before he spoke. ‘Commander Michael Tibbetts,’ he declared into his extension, as Parry scrabbled to lay
his briefing notes out on the table before his boss. ‘How are you this morning?’ Tibbetts enquired, trying to give himself a little breathing space. Not too well, and about to get very
much worse, he hoped quietly.

‘You can see for yourself,’ Masood replied. ‘Shall we get on with it?’

‘We know about Levrenti Bulgakov.’ He waited, giving Masood the opportunity to dispute the connection or profess ignorance, but he didn’t. ‘And about the money,’
Tibbetts added.

‘Money?’

‘Many, many millions of pounds and still counting,’ Tibbetts retorted, shuffling through Parry’s notes to try to find the latest estimate.

‘Treat me as a slow learner, commander. Explain it to me.’

‘The millions you’ve tried to make on the markets because of the siege. You know, Masood, for a moment the world thought this was all about releasing your leader. I wonder what
they’re going to think when they realise that it was really just another grubby exercise in extortion.’

Parry began waggling his hands, trying to indicate that Tibbetts shouldn’t get too aggressive.

‘And you know what, Masood? Bulgakov double-crossed you. He was trying to run off with it all. Every penny for himself.’ It was a lie, of course, but one they had agreed in order to
put pressure on Masood.

‘Tell me, commander, may I assume that you have been doing your homework during the long night, perhaps finding out about Waziristan?’

‘Yes,’ the policeman replied cautiously.

‘So what makes you think that anyone in Waziristan wants your money? What on earth would we do with millions of your British pounds? We don’t need cars – we have almost no
proper roads – and there are only so many goats to go round.’ He was mocking.

‘But—’

‘What Mr Bulkagov has been up to I neither know nor care. If he has run off with all that money, it’s only what Russians do. Careless of you to give him the chance.’

Tibbetts took a deep breath; this wasn’t going well, the revolver was firing on spectacularly empty chambers. He only had one shot left.

‘Bulgakov’s dead.’

‘Commander, I think I understand your game, but it hasn’t worked. Bulgakov’s dead? May rabid dogs pursue him to the gates of Hell. I congratulate you on your discovery but it
changes nothing. I killed my first Russian when I was eight, so do you really think I’m going to worry about one more? You see, they were a little like you, wouldn’t leave us alone, not
until we had killed so many of them that they couldn’t wait to run back to their homeland. But you are not Russians, of course. It won’t take thousands of bodies to change your mind,
just the handful of people in this room. All in all, you will get away very cheaply by comparison.’