by Ted Bell
“Anyone know of Mr. McMahon’s last known whereabouts?” Congreve asked.
“Last known address after prison was a council flat in Belfast,” Thorne said.
“I think I might pop over and have a chat with his neighbors about his present whereabouts,” Ambrose said. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Good idea.” Thorne leaned forward and said, “Look here, despite the fact that this case was closed over thirty years ago, I’m quite happy to discuss other possible suspects. But, I beg you, let’s not dispute known facts. We know the motive, of course, do we not? Whoever penned the first death threat obviously blamed Mountbatten and the Royals personally for the horrific tragedy that befell his mother country.”
“Ireland?” Sir David said. “Or perhaps India?”
Montague Thorne unsuccessfully suppressed a weary sigh. “Yes, of course, Ireland, Sir David. Split in two? Bled us white? Pawns in the game? This has been the quintessential Irish mantra for centuries. Still, the record clearly shows that no stone was left unturned in the investigation. MI6 looked at the Soviets for it, primarily the KGB. And also at the Libyans, where the bomber McMahon had trained. He was IRA, no doubt about it, and this was clearly an IRA operation.”
Sir David, agitated, persisted with the line of questioning. “But why didn’t the killer simply act alone? Suppose he wasn’t even IRA? A lone killer with motives of his own? Certainly possible. Then why does he involve the IRA at all? Sympathy for the cause? Or simply to divert suspicion away from himself and his true motives?”
Hawke looked up, stroking his chin. “Possibly both, Sir David. But the murderer also needed a bomb, and Lord knows there were plenty being built around Belfast at the time. More bomb factories than pubs. Ideally, he would have to find a bomb maker reasonably nearby Mountbatten’s residence in Northern Ireland.”
Congreve said, “Precisely. Someone exactly like Tom McMahon, the resident IRA bomb expert of County Sligo. And, let it be said, a fellow who would have enormous incentive to lend the real murderer a hand. Possible, isn’t it?”
“All quite possible, wouldn’t you admit, Lord Malmsey,” Hawke said, looking at the MI5 man whose responsibility it was to keep his eye on the restive immigrant populations of England and Northern Ireland.
Malmsey, flustered, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Of course anything is possible. I’m not at all sure where this line of thought is headed.”
Hawke, smiling, said, “Lord Malmsey, a hypothetical question. Based upon the language contained in the first note Prince Charles discovered, our killer had an abiding, visceral, personal hatred of his victim, Mountbatten. Wouldn’t you agree? And supposing, for the time being, perhaps, being less politically motivated than the IRA, this hypothetical murderer had far less need of taking credit for his death. Yes?”
“I suppose,” Malmsey replied, unconvinced.
Hawke continued. “Then we come to the new threat His Royal Highness has received, carrying the identical signature. Surely you’ll agree it would lead one to believe this personal vendetta is still ongoing, thirty years after the fact. Yes, or no?”
“Yes, I suppose it’s possible.”
“So, what is the current threat level aimed at the Royal Family? Any recent uptick we should all be aware of? And, if so, where is it coming from?”
“Uptick is putting it mildly,” Lord Malmsey said.
FOURTEEN
LORD MALMSEY NARROWED HIS EYES. Threats had risen dramatically in recent years, as a new generation of young Royals traveled the dangerous world, leading very active social lives. It had put enormous budget and manpower pressure on resources at both Scotland Yard and MI5, and there were no easy answers.
Plus, Britain had an increasingly restive, percolating immigrant Muslim population and was ill-equipped to deal with them effectively. Common knowledge. He was doing the best he could with limited resources, stretched thin. But, were he to be honest, Malmsey feared for his job lately.
He’d recently been pressured by the Home Secretary to promote Miss Karim to her new position even though he’d made it plain he believed such advancement was premature if not wholly unwarranted. The woman was glamorous, intelligent, and, he thought, far too interested in seeing her name in the newspapers. But he was an old hand. And he wasn’t through yet.
He looked at her and thought, What sharp little eyes you have, my dear. Wait until you get to my teeth.
Lord Malmsey said, “I’d like to let Miss Karim answer that question. She spends every waking moment dealing with the domestic radical Muslim situation. Miss Karim?”
“The reality of the situation is this,” Sahira said, rising to her feet, and Hawke found himself gazing at her with unfeigned interest. She was perhaps not beautiful in the classic sense of the word, but she was an extraordinarily handsome woman, had a remarkable figure, and was clearly brilliant. He now remembered why he’d considered his late friend Tony Soames-Taylor such a lucky man.
She said, “Yes, we have certainly picked up a rising number of threats to the Family. And I can state unequivocally that the vast majority of them originate in the Muslim community. And we run down every single one. We’ve yet to find many truly credible threats to the Royals. Mostly hoaxsters, cranks, poseurs, that sort.”
“Can you be more specific about the threat level, Miss Karim?” Hawke asked.
“I would say we now average five to six threats against Her Royal Majesty alone every week, two or three for the heir to the throne. Most come to naught when we run them down, thank God. The ones who appear serious are arrested and investigated.”
“And what’s the profile of your targets?” Trulove asked Sahira Karim.
“The youth, Sir David. The disenfranchised young Muslim residents of the Indian and Pakistani barrios of the East End in London. The truth is, London has become an incubator for violent Islamic extremism, a rage fueled by disenchantment at home and growing anger about the wars in Iraq, northern Pakistan, and Afghanistan.”
Sahira Karim continued. “Our long tradition of tolerance has made us an oasis for immigrants and political outcasts from around the world. The large influx of Pakistanis and other Muslims in the ’70s and ’80s led to the nickname Londonistan. Britain currently houses Europe’s largest Muslim communities.”
“Who keeps you awake at night, Miss Karim?” Prince Charles suddenly asked.
“Other than my neighbors in the flat upstairs? The Pakistanis, sir. All of my attention is focused on them at the moment. Recent Internet chatter is most disturbing. And, as in America, our prisons have become recruiting and training centers for militants and suicide bombers. I am certain more homegrown domestic terror attacks are coming.”
“Pakistan,” Hawke said. “Now there’s a country that scares the living daylights out of me.”
“As well it should, Alex,” C said. “Mr. Thorne here is flying out to Afghanistan and Pakistan tomorrow for one of his regular visits with our sympathetic commanders and warlords in the Northern Provinces. You and I will discuss the Pakistan situation with him when he returns next week.”
“May we get back to the specific threats against the Crown?” Ambrose asked C.
“Of course.”
Congreve coughed discreetly into his closed fist and said, “I’m obviously very disturbed that His Royal Highness found the latest threat in this very room. Taped to the underside of a revolving chessboard. Outrageous. I’m going to need a look at the Highgrove guest book going back at least a month. See who had access to this room. And I think every employee on the estate should be exhaustively interviewed by Special Branch.”
“Agreed,” Charles said. “It’s certainly nervous-making. I’ve been advised to return with my family to Clarence House in London, but I’d much rather stay here, to be perfectly honest.”
“We’ve already trebled security on the estate,” the Prince’s private secretary said, looking up from his notes. “Perhaps we should quadruple it for the time being? Until this matter is resolved?�
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“Yes, I fully intend to do that at all the Royal residences and palaces until we get to the bottom of this,” Lord Malmsey said, “effective immediately.”
Prince Charles was suddenly getting to his feet, looking around the table at each of them. The meeting was coming to an end.
He had very kind eyes, Hawke thought, watching him. A gentle, thoughtful man who tried very hard to do his duty to his beloved England. This was the man who would be King, and a damn fine one, Hawke thought, one day. He suddenly remembered why the two of them had grown so close over the years. A common sense of duty. And a lack of any sense of privilege.
“Thank you all very much indeed for being here,” Charles said. “After this extraordinarily thorough and extremely helpful discussion, I suggest we all have an extra glass or two of claret at dinner this evening, or none of us shall sleep a wink all night. Dinner will be served promptly at eight. I look forward to seeing you there. We are adjourned.”
Hawke picked up his pen and scrawled a note to Ambrose, folding it carefully and passing it to him as discreetly as he could. The detective, keeping the note out of sight, opened it and read these words:
Mountbatten, Ambrose. That’s where this all begins. Find out who really killed him, and we find our villain.
H.
HAWKE WAS DRESSING FOR DINNER that evening when he heard a soft tapping on his bedchamber door.
Opening it, and still fussing with his ill-behaved black tie, he saw Ambrose Congreve standing there in the wide hall, firing up his pipe.
“Oh, hullo, Alex. Not dressed yet? I wonder if I might have a word?”
“Good timing, old dragon. Can you help me with this damnable bow tie? I hate these things, don’t know how Churchill had the patience for them every day, especially when Hitler was breathing fire down his neck.”
“Go over to the mirror. I have to stand behind you and tie it the way I normally do. And look at your pocket handkerchief. It’s all wrong.”
As Congreve got him properly adorned, Hawke said, “You’ve something on your mind. I can smell it on you. Or perhaps it’s just your cologne.”
“It’s about the old Mountbatten case.”
“Speak, memory.”
“I didn’t want to mention this in front of His Royal Highness, or anyone else in that room. Might raise false expectations. Might start a wild-goose chase.”
“I’ll chase any goose you’ve got at this point. Spill it.”
“There was a third suspect in our original investigation. We called him the ‘third man.’”
“Really?”
“We kept his name out of the press. You could do that in those days. We couldn’t find him. We tried for years. The man was a ghost. Cold case.”
“You’re talking about him being the button pusher? The Mountbatten bomb?”
“Hmm. Possibly. We were looking at him for something entirely different, but yes, he might well have been this ‘Pawn’ as he styles himself.”
“An Irishman?”
“Most likely, yes. We got on to him through a paid informant inside Sinn Fein. This fellow was spending a lot of time in Northern Ireland. We had hearsay evidence that he met secretly with McGirl and McMahon the bomb builder a few times prior to Mountbatten’s murder.”
“What were you originally looking at him for, then?”
“A series of murders that occurred over that summer, in Northern Ireland. A brutal serial killer. With a signature. All victims were young women. Pretty. Fair skinned, blond, blue eyes. The women were just random girls abducted from the forests and seashore around Belfast and Sligo, hikers, picnic types. That was the only element in common. The whole north of Ireland was terrified that summer. They’d even given our third man a moniker. They called him the Maniac in those days.”
“And?”
“The murders stopped with the death of Lord Mountbatten. He never struck again. At least to my knowledge. My colleagues and I continued our search for him long after the trial had ended. We even offered a huge reward for information leading to his arrest. Nothing. I believe to this day he was Mountbatten’s killer. Long dead now. Or just very good at hiding. There is no ‘Serial Killers Anonymous,’ you know. Serial killers don’t stop. They either get caught or they die. So suicide or some kind of accidental death would be the likely scenario.”
“Fascinating. Did you ever have a name?”
“We did. Smith.”
“Just Smith?”
“Yes, Alex.”
“I think our next stop is Northern Ireland. This Smith needs finding. Serial killers suffer from overwhelming feelings of inadequacy, as you well know, Constable. They crave publicity, notoriety. But they don’t care whether they’re famous or infamous. Our man Smith may well be the ‘pawn’ who murdered Lord Mountbatten as well as all those poor girls. Although God only knows why.”
“Find him and we’ll know why,” Congreve said. “If he’s still alive.”
“What about Miss Karim’s concern about increasing Muslim extremist threats to Charles and his family?”
“I can’t really say at this point. I don’t discount threats from any quarter. Smith’s crimes could easily be simply coincident with the political assassination of a Royal in Mullaghmore. However, Alex, I still believe what you said in the note you passed to me. It all begins with Mountbatten.”
“I pray I’m right. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“I’m afraid you’re closer to the truth than you know, Alex.”
“Why?”
“The name ‘Pawn’ was never made public. It was a very long time ago, you know, 1979.”
“And, Smith? Did that name go public?”
“No, it did not.”
“One thing occurred to me while dressing,” Hawke said. “I don’t want to alarm you.”
“Yes?”
“I was driving in the center of the road when the Jaguar pulled alongside the Locomotive.”
“Yes?”
“He could have easily gone to the driver’s side, but he didn’t. He went to your side.”
“I was the target?”
“Possibly. And now that we know it was an IRA hit, well…”
“Smith is after me, too. He’s aware of my role in the Mountbatten investigation. He knows I was on to him. And he doesn’t want me prying into this matter again.”
“My thoughts exactly. And he has someone on the inside. Either here at Highgrove, or Buckingham Palace. An equerry, a secretary, anyone who is privy to HRH’s personal schedule. How are you getting along with the new regime at Scotland Yard, Constable?”
“I’m a god there. Always will be.”
“Very funny. I’ve arranged for a driver to get us back to London immediately following lunch on Sunday. So tell Diana you’ll be returning early enough to take her to your regular supper at the Connaught Grill.”
“Will you join us? She’d adore to see you.”
“Thanks, no. I’ve an early meeting with C Monday morning, so I plan to have a quiet evening at home and get some sleep. But perhaps you could have a word with the Royalty Protection Squad at the Yard first thing Monday morning? Explain the whole situation to SO14 and also my suspicions about an IRA death squad perhaps stalking you, as well as Charles. We could use a little help.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’ve spoken to my pilots. We’re taking my plane to Sligo airport in Northern Ireland Monday afternoon. Wheels up at three. Not a long drive to Mullaghmore from there. We’ll hire a car.”
FIFTEEN
LONDON
THERE WERE FEW THINGS IN LIFE Alex Hawke treasured more than being alone at home on a rainy Sunday night. His large house in Belgravia had many nooks and crannies where he could curl up with a good book. But it was the small window seat in the third-story sitting room overlooking Belgrave Square that he loved most. A hard, slashing rain beat against the windowpanes as he turned the yellowed pages of the book given him by Prince Charles at Highgrove.
H
e’d wandered into Charles’s library after dinner the first night, looking for something to read himself to sleep. Charles had entered the room looking for some documents on his desk and had recommended Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene.
The book was the tale of an Englishman named Wormold, a divorced vacuum cleaner salesman in Havana. Wormold is, for various obscure reasons, recruited by the British Secret Service as a spy. Hawke found himself laughing aloud in parts and soon realized that Charles had not chosen the book at random. He’d meant it as an inside joke, but he had also known Hawke would love it. Wormold’s biggest seller was a vacuum called the “Atomic Pile.”
An inspired choice. And, even though the book was quite good fun, he found himself drifting off periodically, only to wake and gaze across the room at the dimly lit painting hung above the mantel. His mother, seated, was lovely in a long white satin dress; and his father, standing beside her in his dress navy uniform, ramrod straight, looked every bit the modest hero Hawke knew him to be. The portrait had been painted just weeks after their wedding.
They looked so very happy, he thought, and so very much in love. And so blissfully unaware of the unspeakably cruel fate the future had lying in wait for them in the short decade they would have together.
From downstairs came the faint echo of the front door bell. He looked at his watch. After eleven. Who in the world? He put the book aside and stood up. You could see the front entrance from this window if you tried hard enough.
He peered down, but all he saw was the top of a large and glistening black umbrella at his door. Pelham was no doubt making his way to the door at this very second, and a few moments later he watched the umbrella pass between the four great fluted pillars of white marble and make its way inside his house on Belgrave Square.