The Aachen Memorandum

by Andrew Roberts

  Hitting the ramp at speed, the auto flew up and landed in Pall Mall. Missing two cars by their paintwork, Cradock flung the car into a sharp right and sped off fast.

  He took Pall Mall at well over a hundred, overtaking on the inside, ignoring lights. Horatio turned in his seat to see Tallboys sprint out of the garage, leap into the passenger seat of a waiting auto and wing off after them.

  ‘Left here!’ he yelled, as they got to the St James’s Museum. The auto behind had attached a magnetic siren and flashing light to its roof. The noise of the shot, the screeching tyres and now the banshee police siren sent Horatio into a terror-trance.

  ‘Whack on that tape!’ yelled Cradock, punching him hard on the shoulder to rouse him.

  ‘Sharp right here towards Attali House!’ pointed Horatio. Ignoring the red light and oncoming traffic and blaring the horn, Cradock swung right as they reached St James’s Park and shot off towards the Charlemagne statue in front of the Bank.

  ‘Off right when you get there!’ Horatio pointed towards Hyde Park Corner.

  He looked behind him, praying that Tallboys hadn’t managed to negotiate the oncoming traffic. But not only had the driver – who Horatio didn’t need a second glance to see was Cleo – accelerated between two lorries, but Tallboys was now leaning out of the passenger window, gun in hand.

  His first volley of shots smashed the back window, sending broken glass flying around the inside of the car.

  ‘Get to work!’ shouted Cradock. As they sped up Constitution Hill, Horatio, crouching low in his seat, turned up the volume and fast-forwarded the Admiral’s tape past the Beethoven and the opening words ‘Testing, Testing’ Then he clicked it out, put it in its case and shoved it back in his jacket pocket.

  Tallboys’ next burst of shots sent shards of rear-view mirror zipping into Cradock’s cheek, neck and shoulder. Blood spattered across Horatio’s face. It was like being sprayed with warm soup.

  ‘Over the roundabout and up there!’ Horatio yelled, pointing up Park Lane. The Lanesborough Hotel, Arafat Statue and Apsley Class-Harmony Centre each flew past in quick succession. Then up Park Lane.

  They could no longer hear Cleo’s siren. Horatio looked behind. Where were they?

  Cradock stopped by the Dorchester. He was losing blood fast. There was no sign of Cleo’s auto.

  Retching, Horatio tried to remove a piece of mirror from Cradock’s cheek. He didn’t dare touch the neck.

  ‘We’ll get you into the hotel. They’ll have someone who can see to you there.’ Cradock pushed him off.

  ‘Forget that. No time. Take my pass.’ He gestured to the chain around his neck with its plastic I.D. Traces of blood were appearing on his lips from inside his mouth.

  ‘This?’

  ‘Yes. Password’s “Wavell”.’ Cradock coughed as blood filled his oesophagus. ‘Got that?’

  ‘Wavell.’

  ‘Get out. Go to the V.I.P. tent. See Upham. Now!’ Horatio pulled the card over Cradock’s head, leapt out, crossed the road and lost himself in the huge crowd strolling towards Speakers’ Corner.

  The electronic clock above the stage, five hundred metres away, read 10.44.

  Not enough time.

  CHAPTER 26

  10.44 SATURDAY 8 MAY

  Horatio pushed his way, agonisingly slowly, through the vast, happy crowd.

  ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ he said, as he picked his way between small children and picnic rugs. There must be two hundred thousand people here, he thought. Most of them, he guessed, making a mildly pro-nat statement, paying homage to their ancestral Pretender-King and having a sunny anti-Establishment Saturday morning into the bargain. Very few, he imagined, could really be motivated by commemorating a war which ended a century ago. The last veterans of it had died off in the Twenties, now none but centenarians could even remember being children then. Yet English people of all ages were turning up in their tens of thousands.

  Horatio fought his way, shoving and pushing, towards the V.I.P. area beside the vast stage. Cleo and Tallboys would guess where he was heading. The bitch seemed to know everything.

  He was sweating and feeling his heart palpitations. He tried to wipe Cradock’s blood off his face and clothes as he walked. Would Cradock be OK? Should he have left him? Would his own Salbutamol hold out? He had the refill cartridge in his jacket pocket but …

  It was 10.51 before he reached the tent. A security guard in a scarlet tunic carrying an R-201 machine gun stepped forward.

  ‘Wavell! Wavell!’ panted Horatio.

  ‘Yer name’s Wavell? Wavell who? Who do you want to see?’

  ‘No, my name’s not Wavell.’ He gasped for breath. ‘The password’s Wavell.’

  ‘What password?’

  ‘The sodding password to get past you to see the King,’ he gasped. His throat felt horribly constricted. It was starting to throb. He knew the symptoms. He pulled out the Salbutamol and sucked hard three times. It wasn’t helping.

  The guard shot a look to a younger colleague, who had come over to see what was going on. They’d already been warned of a terrorist incident outside the New Zealand Embassy, and news was coming in over the intercom of an auto, registered stolen, which had been abandoned on Park Lane. An unindentified man had been found dead inside and there were reports of a short, fat, non-ethnic male escaping the scene. Embassy security were thus in no mood to indulge jokers or lunatics.

  By now Horatio was wheezing, in serious pain and close to tears. He pulled Cradock’s card from his jacket pocket and showed them it. Both guards knew Cradock well. They saw the blood on Horatio’s shirt and jacket. Then they recognised him.

  ‘Hands up! Spreadeagle yer legs! Keep your hands apart and up where we can see ’em!’ The first man jabbed the machine-gun muzzle into Horatio’s stomach, winding him. The other one removed Jean’s gun and ammo clips from his pockets.

  ‘Jeez!’ he whistled. Horatio was struggling for breath, but he couldn’t reach for his inhaler again in case they thought he was going for a concealed weapon. Neither could he tell them what was wrong. He just went purple in the face.

  The first guard detached a crackling two-way from his epaulette and spoke fast into it.

  ‘Colonel Upham, sir. Assassination suspect at main V.I.P.! I’ve recognised him, too. It’s the terrorist, the Channel Bridge one. Carrying a weapon! Bit antique, but it’s loaded. He was attempting to impersonate Lyle Cradock, sir. He wanted to see the King. There’s blood all over him. Repeat: probable assassination attempt! We’ve got him though. Gold Star Alert! This is not, repeat not a practice. Over.’

  ‘We’ll be there right away,’ replied a voice over the two-way. ‘Watch out for any others. Good work. Over and out.’

  Horatio was choking and faint. His hands were up on the canvas wall of the V.I.P. reception room. The winding had left him nauseous, vulnerable and demoralised.

  ‘I need my inhaler,’ he croaked.

  ‘Frisk ’im, Joe,’ said the older of the men.

  ‘Turn out yer pockets.’ Horatio did as he was told. ‘Right out.’ He did, and his I.D., pen, inhaler, extra Salbutamol cartridge and five two-euro pieces fell out onto the ground, to be studied by the younger guard. He was given back the inhaler which he clasped and sucked on hard. The older guard switched on the pager.

  ‘Yup, it’s Lestoq all right. We’re gonna be famous Joe.’ Miraculously the tape, still sticky with gum, stayed attached to his pocket lining, out of sight. After an eternity, in which Horatio prayed the tape would continue to defy gravity, Joe said, ‘OK. Keep facing the wall. You can stick ’em back now, all except the pager.’ Horatio flicked his pocket linings back in and bent down to pick everything else up off the floor. As he did so, he heard people sprinting up behind him.

  ‘Turn around.’ There were two of them.

  Horatio blinked.

  Could it be?

  CHAPTER 27

  10.55 SATURDAY 8 MAY

  Affecting not to recognise him, Marty, gun in hand and w
ithout even a clandestine wink, barked, ‘Who are you?’

  Should he play Marty’s game? Could this be a second Get-Out-Of-Gaol-Free card?

  ‘Horatio Lestoq,’ he said in as quiet and dignified a voice as possible. The breath was coming easier now.

  ‘The man wanted by Europol?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In connection with the Entente Bridge outrage?’

  ‘Amongst other things I’m innocent of, yes.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to speak to the King. Now. Before he makes his speech.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to give him something.’

  ‘What?’

  It was his last hope.

  ‘Wavell.’

  ‘What did you say?’ It was the other man. A Kiwi by the sound of him. Horatio could not quite make out the badge on his lapel. ‘What did you say just then?’

  ‘I said Wavell. It’s the password. Only these bozos hadn’t heard of it.’

  ‘No one but Cradock, His Majesty and I know it.’ He turned to Marty. ‘This puts a very different complexion on matters. I’ve got orders about what to do with anyone, and I was told anyone, who came here and gave that password.’ Marty walked over to the corner of the room and beckoned the New Zealander over.

  They stood for about half a minute and from the looks Horatio was able to shoot over they were arguing hard. Then they returned. The New Zealander spoke first, asking Horatio, ‘Do you know this man?’

  Marty had started this non-recognition ploy, whatever it was for. He’d better stick to it.

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK Horror, it’s all right,’ said Marty. ‘You can tell him the truth now.’ Horatio took a long look at Marty and shook his head.

  ‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. What’s your name?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Horror! You can snap out of it now.’ He sounded as if he meant it, but Horatio was not about to give away whatever Marty’s game had been.

  ‘No, honestly, I don’t recognise you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Right,’ said the New Zealander, ‘that settles it.’ He turned to Marty. ‘You must be mistaken. You’re stressed. It’s understandable.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Frisked him thoroughly?’ They nodded. ‘Right, come with me.’ They took a few paces towards the corridor, Marty following. The Kiwi turned round. ‘You’d better stay here. We need maximum protection against any confederates who might attack here.’

  ‘I think I should come along too,’ said Marty. ‘In case he tries anything.’

  ‘It’s quite all right, I can take care of him.’

  ‘He’s a proven killer. Colonel, I insist.’

  ‘Thanks, but no. I can cope. Stay here. All right, Lestoq, you go first. Down there.’ Marty looked at the other guards and shrugged.

  Horatio again felt an intense, bowel-loosening fear. He was going down a long corridor with another complete stranger who was armed and walking directly behind him. Marty had been left behind. What would stop the Kiwi just shooting him in the back there and then? They walked quickly and in silence until they reached a small, sparse, functional office. There was a desk, chair and a wall clock.

  10.58.

  The Kiwi closed the door behind him.

  ‘The name’s Upham, Bill Upham, I’m i/c Security, N.Z. Embassy. Give me the Memorandum, Dr Lestoq. I’ll take it in to His Majesty. Then pick up Frobisher and go straight to the control tower in front of the stage. It’s the tall building on stilts about fifty metres from here. You must protect it against any attempts to shut down His Majesty’s speech. He’s about to go on any minute.’ He held out his left hand for the tape, still holding the gun in the right.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ Upham looked astonished.

  ‘You heard. No. I don’t trust anyone any longer.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘I’ll give it to the King himself. No one else does.’

  ‘This is absurd. There’s no time left for this.’

  ‘Him and him alone.’

  There was a pause. Upham levelled a stare into Horatio’s eyes that would have shamed a pimp or a politician. Horatio returned it defiantly. Before it turned into a silence, Upham looked at the clock just as it clicked 10.59.

  ‘Follow me.’ He led the way through two more doors and past three further sets of security guards.

  Half a minute later they were standing in the presence of a tall, handsome, sandy-haired man. He was wearing old-fashioned naval uniform, complete with gold braid up to the elbow. Horatio was immediately reminded of the statue of Charles III at Madame Tussauds, which he had seen on a school trip just before it was removed under Democratisation Directive 56/789. The man was accompanied by four other people in suits. Upham stepped forward.

  ‘Your Majesty, may I present Horatio Lestoq?’

  Horatio bowed from the neck and wondered what to do next. What should he call him? ‘Sir’, ‘Sire’, ‘Your Royal Highness’? The Commission had directed that Mr Mountbatten-Windsor was to be the correct form of address during the visit, but that would hardly be polite.

  ‘Ah yes, the famous Dr Lestoq. You have something for me, I believe?’ The voice had that clipped, pukkah, regal timbre made famous by a score of broadcasts zealously picked up by the public every Christmas despite the Information Commission’s annual jamming attempts.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Covered closely by Upham, Horatio detached the tape container from his jacket pocket lining and handed it over. The King then took a small recorder from his pocket. He took the tape from its case, inserted it, and pressed ‘Play’ with his thumb. A detached, ethereal voice filled the hush: ‘This is Admiral Michael Ratcliffe speaking at 18.00 …’ He switched it off, rewound for half a second and pressed ‘Stop’.

  ‘Very good. Very good indeed. Well done.’

  The King, whom Horatio by now had time to notice was in his early sixties, about one metre ninety and as striking as his photos, was wearing the full dress uniform of a British Admiral of the Fleet circa 2015. The diamonds of the Garter star glistened on his breast.

  ‘And the rest is exactly as it is in the transcript which was paged to Mr Upham on Thursday?’

  ‘Yes, sir, precisely the same.’

  ‘And you believe the allegations made in it?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘I see. Well, after this is all over, we will want to hear the full story of how you came by it. As you may know, our intelligence people – specifically Messrs Upham and Cradock – have been working with people like your agent JACOBITE for some years now. They have been looking for just such … information as you have produced. At no small risk to yourself I understand.’ Horatio nodded in what he hoped looked like modesty. ‘Now at last this appalling deception which was perpetrated upon our people can be revealed. You’re a very brave man, Lestoq. If we had any more time’ – he looked at his watch – ‘which I see we haven’t, I would be tempted to knight you here on the spot. On the field of battle, as it were!’ He flashed the famous Mountbatten-Windsor smile. Horatio felt strangely light-headed. Small wonder, he thought, that the Commission feared this man’s charisma; it was even working on a hard-hearted cynic like himself.

  ‘Thank you sir. But I have to tell you that I believe Cradock might be dead now. From wounds sustained after an attack by two operatives of Europol’s Political Intelligence Department.’ Horatio could sense the King’s pain.

  ‘Another of our finest. When this visit was arranged we were promised complete protection for myself and my entourage. First came the attack on the Bridge. Now this.’

  ‘I don’t believe you should go out there, sir. The people who tried to kill me are fanatics. They’ll know, or at least they’ll guess, that you have the tape now. They’ll never let you play it.’

  The King twisted a cufflink with his fingers. It was a mannerism Horatio recognised as one of his father’s trademarks.

  ‘My people have c
ome to see me,’ he said, slowly and deliberately, turning to the others in the room, ‘and it would be an act of cowardice to disappoint them now. They would never understand it. Besides, we have waited twenty-eight years for today. I’ll be speaking from inside a large transparent box which my security people have brought over from Auckland. I’ve seen it tested, it’s quite remarkable. Both bomb-and bullet-proof.’ Then he added, with that engaging, Hugh Grant grin made famous by a million magazine covers, ‘Anyhow, I have to go sometime, and frankly I can’t think of a much better way to do it than while revealing the facts of this appalling betrayal to my people and the world.’

  A clock struck 11.00. Good-natured chanting could be heard from outside, growing louder.

  ‘We want the King!’

  CHAPTER 28

  11.02 SATURDAY 8 MAY

  Horatio and Bill Upham picked up Marty at the entrance and pushed their way out. The astonished security guards returned Horatio’s pulse gun at the V.I.P. gate, and the three men shoved through the thick crowds towards the control tower.

  ‘Tallboys was in your flat on Wednesday,’ Horatio shouted to Marty as they went.

  ‘I know,’ Marty called back over his shoulder, ‘they’ve given it a right going-over. They stole my vid and photo albums and a lot of other stuff. From the look of the job it was the same lot who did over the Rectory.’

  ‘Did they get my file disc?’ asked Horatio.

  ‘How did you know about that?’ They pushed harder through the mass of bodies in the crowd.

  ‘Cleo said.’

  ‘Did she? The answer’s no, I burnt it.’

  A great cheer went up from the crowd as the President of the V.E. Centenary Committee appeared on stage, along with half a dozen other people who took their seats around the box from which the King was due to speak.