A short walk away, the doors to the House of Lords we swung open to allow peers to begin taking their seats. Archie Wakefield and Celia Blessing were both relieved not to have to continue their sulk of silence outside the doors, but unlike most days, when they would have sat on opposite sides, they were forced by the restrictions of the day to take seats close to each other. They both wanted the best view; the baroness sat in the third row of the benches to the left of the throne, while he took the seat immediately behind her, muttering to himself that he was getting her best profile.
It was at this time that the final security meeting of the day took place. In a small office near the chamber, an inspector from the Metropolitan Police who was responsible for security outside of the palace sat down with members of Black Rod’s office who were responsible for matters inside – an overlapping web of security that was supposed to provide multiple layers of protection, although some thought it top heavy and unfocused. Why wasn’t just one man in charge, one man whose neck was on the line? But this was the way it had been handled for many years and it had worked pretty well since . . . well, since Guy Fawkes.
While the men talked, police sniffer dogs ran one final check through the chamber and in the surrounding rooms and corridors, but the cleaners’ room in the basement always retained a powerful smell of cleaning fluids and polish, which made it difficult territory for the dogs. They failed to detect the body of the young policeman which had been bent double and locked inside a cupboard alongside several open bottles of bleach. More bleach had been used to wipe away any trace of his blood, and no one had yet noticed he was missing.
Neither did the dogs detect what was hidden in Coca-Cola cans which had been placed carefully inside the vacuum cleaner, and which Mukhtar had hauled to a corridor close by the chamber. One dog did approach, but Mukhtar switched on the apparatus and the noise and odour of stale dust that it threw out were enough to distract the animal. Even as the security forces carried out their carefully laid plans to secure the building and a large chunk of Westminster around it, no one realised that the killers had already beaten their trap.
9.11 a.m.
Harry came out of the shower and dripped over the carpet of the bedroom. He had stayed a long time beneath the cascade of water, hoping it might wash the pain away, but it hadn’t. Through the open door of the bedroom he could see into the rest of the service apartment he had taken on Curzon Street, a few hundred yards from his home. The accommodation was antiseptic and utterly anonymous. He had been able to ignore it when he assumed this was merely a temporary lodging, somewhere to squat before he moved back home, but now he realised that wasn’t going to happen. He had no home any more. This squalid little place was his life, until he changed it, a life of shirts wrapped in impersonal cellophane, a fridge full of afterthoughts, and a few boxes of books and papers piled in a corner.
He towelled himself roughly until his back felt raw and sat on the bed, his laptop beside him. Beyond the grimy, metal-framed windows the street was cast in coppered sunlight yet it did nothing for his humour. He logged into the Marie Stopes website, and his mind grew still darker. Before 12 weeks pregnancy . . . That would be about it. Melanie wouldn’t have left it any longer, she wasn’t one for harbouring doubts. At this stage gentle suction is used to remove the pregnancy from the uterus. ‘The pregnancy’? Didn’t they mean the baby, his baby? This is a very quick and simple procedure, taking less than five minutes to perform. It made it seem like an ingrown toenail or treatment for a head cold; the moral equivalent of sweeping out a blocked gutter. The clinic offered lavish promises about the physical treatment and mental welfare of the mother, yet there wasn’t a word about the father. It is completely your decision who you tell about your treatment . . . Didn’t the father have rights? Couldn’t he feel pain, too? He had obligations aplenty, the law laid them down in meticulous detail and all costed to the last penny, but there wasn’t a sniff of what those obligations bought.
Friday afternoon, she had told him. Little more than fifty hours, and then . . . He had to change her mind. Harry felt sick, as if an animal was tearing at him inside. It shocked him, how passionately he felt about it. He couldn’t remember if he had ever been as distressed in his life, or as powerless. He threw his towel into a corner and lay back on his pillow, his wet hair sending trickles of dampness down his cheeks. His cheeks were still damp, long after the hair had dried.
9.30 a.m.
As the peal of bells alongside Big Ben struck the half-hour, the security net tightened. Not all the preparations went smoothly. A peer came bowling along Parliament Street on his bicycle, anxious that he was a little late, only to run into a roadblock. Although he had his red-and-white Lords’ pass he was denied access. ‘Can’t take the bike in, m’lud,’ a policeman told him. ‘You don’t have the right pass for it. And you can’t leave it here, neither. Otherwise we’ll have to take it away and blow it up.’ The peer retired hurt.
Two of the earliest arrivals, clutching proper passes, were in wheelchairs. Their passes were little more than a piece of printed pale green card with a number and a name written on it, and the two men were required to provide some additional form of photographic identity to match the names on the cards. They both produced well-worn British passports. With the courtesy and smooth efficiency that characterised the occasion, they were then conducted to a spot reserved for them in the Royal Gallery, a special place for wheelchairs where they would be directly beside the processional route and only a few feet away from Her Majesty as she passed. The two men expressed their thanks and, somewhat to the relief of the over stretched attendants, declined the use of the disabled toilet facilities.
On another part of the processional route, the Norman Porch, where the Queen would mount its steps, a BBC technician was reprimanded for failing to display his pass clearly. ‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ a doorkeeper remarked, ‘we need our medals on parade.’ They couldn’t take anything for granted, least of all the BBC. Some standards had to be maintained. Sadly, there were many other miscreants. Peers frequently forgot to wear their passes, and many Members of the House of Commons simply refused; they liked to assume everyone knew who they were, even if they hadn’t made it all the way to the front page of the News of the World.
In the nearby Moses Room, Ede and Ravenscroft were dispensing the robes of scarlet wool trimmed in ermine that their Lordships were required to wear, yet even here, standards were slipping. In some cases, at the insistence of the peer, the ermine was in fact rabbit, and, in one or two cases, artificial fur. The robes covered many sins. Beneath their robes the peers were instructed to wear full dress uniform, morning dress or lounge suit, but Archie Wakefield had no right to wear uniform and refused the class-ridden pretensions of morning dress, so he made do with a suit, one of only two he owned. It may have taken pride of place in his wardrobe but it had clearly travelled many a mile. The trousers seemed to be fashioned from material reclaimed from a worn-out concertina while the jacket succeeded in both stretching and sagging at the same time.
This was also the moment for one of the most celebrated traditions of the day. Ten members of the Yeoman of the Guard, the oldest military corps in the country, were given the order to start their ceremonial search in a colourful re-enactment of the moment that their predecessors had discovered Guy Fawkes’s stash of gunpowder. Four centuries later, no chances were being taken. With lamps in one hand and ceremonial four-inch axes in the other, dressed in uniforms of brilliant scarlet with knee-breeches and ruffs that stretched back to Tudor times, they marched in step to their duty, through the chamber and down a staircase into the cellars. Once they had finished they would be taken to the Terrace overlooking the river for a glass of port. It was, of course, merely ritual. After all, the cellars had already been searched by sniffer dogs and police with metal detectors. No surprises, that was the order of the day. Everything had to move like clockwork, to the minute.
It was a day that, in the words of the police inspector, had been planned to death
. But others had their plans, too. By this time, there were already seven assassins inside the building. One more to go and they would have a full set.
9.37 a.m.
A blue armoured BMW with two-inch thick windows and a suspension that seemed to sag just a little lower than most pulled slowly into Downing Street. It was Robert Paine’s car and was followed by a British Special Branch unit, but the Stars and Stripes weren’t flying from the bonnet. This wasn’t an official call.
The door of Number Ten opened for him as he approached and he walked straight through into the black-and-white-tiled hallway. He was a regular visitor, felt comfortable here, was on first-name terms with the doorman, but even he was surprised when a football suddenly bounced his way.
‘Sorry, Mr Paine,’ an American voice called out, laughing.
‘Can we have our ball back, mister?’ another voice added in a plaintive mock-Cockney accent.
‘You turning Downing Street into a soccer pitch?’
‘My father would call it the maximum utilisation of public resources,’ the Englishman replied.
‘And Mom’d say we were only getting our own back on the British for burning down the White House,’ the other chimed in.
The two young men smiled as they strode forward to take the ambassador’s hand. ‘Thanks for offering the lift today, Mr Paine,’ the American said. ‘We could have walked, you know, wouldn’t take above ten minutes.’
‘Your mother asked me to take care of you,’ Paine replied. ‘I think she meant I should make sure you got there on time and didn’t upstage the Queen.’
‘Aw, mothers.’
‘Not to mention fathers!’ added the other.
They both laughed. They were in their early twenties and clearly good companions. By any stretch theirs was a remarkable friendship, forged at Oxford, where they were both studying. It wasn’t often that the sons of a British Prime Minister and an American President had the opportunity to make mischief together and grow close.
Magnus Eaton, the Englishman, was a slight, wiry, copper-haired individual with an irreverent smile who was making his own way in the world, despite his parentage. He had insisted on being sent to state school rather than some fee-paying establishment, much to the private relief and public credit of his father, and had rarely had his photograph published except for the family Christmas card. Despite the inevitable accusations of nepotism when he had gained his place at Oxford he had proved himself to be a highly talented young man, adept not only at his mathematical studies but also an excellent musician and a tenacious cross-country runner. He had kept a clean slate, apart from the time he had got himself arrested in The Broad for being drunk in charge of a bicycle. The charge was later dropped when it was shown that even in the hands of the entirely sober and upright station sergeant, it simply wasn’t possible to persuade the rusted bike to travel in a straight line.
Magnus’s life had been led largely in the shadows at the edge of the public arena. By contrast, William-Henry Harrison Edwards was never going to get away so lightly, not when his mother was the first female President in US history and the third in the family to make it to the White House. Great things were expected of William-Henry, and he had delivered. A Harvard history undergraduate, summa cum laude, currently a Rhodes Scholar in Oxford and predicted to become a rowing blue. Life had been a chest crammed with many treasures, most of which he had deserved, yet it had caused his mother much soul searching before she’d agreed to let him continue his education abroad. After all, the sons of America weren’t exactly welcome in many parts of the modern world, but Britain, she had eventually been persuaded, was different. ‘Mom, it’s the Special Relationship. Harry Potter, Prince William, motherhood and organic apple pie, all that sort of gentle stuff,’ her son had declared. ‘And you cannot – you simply can not – send tens of thousands of other American sons halfway round the world to fight our wars while you keep me wrapped up at home. Heaven’s sakes, Mom, Oxford’s not like Afghanistan.’ So, reluctantly, she had let him go.
‘By the way, Mr Paine, Dad sends regards. And his thanks and apologies,’ Magnus was saying, ticking off his fingers. ‘I’m quoting here. Regards, because you’re the best ambassador he’s ever had dealings with. Thanks, for taking me off his hands this morning. And apologies, because he’s tied up in some stuffy meeting and can’t give you all this guff himself. Something about Daud Gul, I think. Trying to decide if they can stuff and mount him in order to put him on public display.’
‘I understand his difficulties. Hooking the fish is one thing, landing him is another, I guess. But I fear we have no time for high politics. We must leave. It wouldn’t do to keep Her Majesty waiting.’
‘We haven’t even had breakfast,’ the younger American complained, searching for his jacket. ‘Hell, I wonder what Daud Gul will get for his last breakfast. You know, as and when—’
‘Revenge, perhaps,’ the ambassdor offered. ‘These matters have a history of producing the most unexpected results.’
‘I hope when he drops he falls all the way to hell. Don’t you agree, Mr Paine?’
‘As a diplomat I’m supposed neither to agree nor disagree. And I think you’ll find that the British no longer hold with retribution and all those Old Testament edicts. Such beliefs are becoming a uniquely American preserve.’
‘Pity. We should Saddam the bastard.’
‘And as for the long road to hell, I’ve often found that it doesn’t lie as far away as most of us think,’ the ambassador continued, leading them out of the door towards his car.
‘Say, do they do croissants and coffee at this State Opening thing?’ William-Henry enquired.
‘When grown men start dressing in silk stockings and wigs, there’s no way of being sure what to expect,’ the ambassador replied.
9.42 a.m.
The day really wasn’t working out for Harry. A state of near-paralysis was spreading through the arteries that led from the Palace of Westminster until it had choked much of Central London. Harry tried to call a taxi, but nothing was moving, forcing him to go by foot. Not that this was unusual. In his early days as an officer in the Household Cavalry he had once taken his troop on an unscheduled six-hundred-mile route march down the spine of Norway, much to the delight of his men and the consternation of his CO, who just hated surprises. Harry had an extraordinary knack of pissing off his superiors. His last outing with the Special Air Service had proved to be one hell of a yomp, too. He’d loved the SAS, not so much for what it was but because, after Julia’s death, he had been able to lose himself within its monkish company of warriors. He had shown himself to be utterly fearless, some said reckless, but only with his own life. Others did their damage with little more than a pen. No sooner had his squadron proved its mettle in counter-terrorist operations throughout Northern Ireland and many other parts of the world than an order was signed placing them on role rotation. They were intensely honed experts in urban warfare; now with little more than a few weeks’ training behind them, they were sent to fight in the desert. It was the inexorable Law of Sod. They found them selves thrust into something called Gulf War One. The equipment had been crap – some of it literally melted – the intelligence had more holes than a whore’s knickers and they’d been dropped in a location that was supposed to have been empty for miles around but turned out to be within spitting distance of a major deployment of the Republican Guard. After a disastrous firefight Harry had been forced to walk more than two hundred miles to safety with a bullet in his back and a wounded colleague slung over his shoulder, and only two litres of water between them. Yes, Harry knew how to walk.
Now, as he hurried through the park at the back of Downing Street, he wondered if he was still able to do it, to take all that pain. He knew he’d changed, perhaps gone soft. He was used to controlling his feelings, not letting the anger show, so why was this baby thing getting to him? Christ, he’d even voted for the abortion bill, but now . . . He strode on, trying to work off his frustration. Soon he was c
utting through St Margaret’s churchyard where, in the lee of the abbey, the lawns had been planted with a spreading tide of tiny wooden crosses bearing poppies. Remembrance Day was less than a week away. He slowed his pace. Small family groups were gathered, pointing to crosses, planting their own, talking in low voices washed with pride about those they had lost. Harry came to a halt for a few moments, struggling with his own memories.
As he stood in this field of poppies, much of his immediate anger passed from him. He had to regroup, get back in control of the situation. He couldn’t leave things where they were with Mel, buried in lurid recrimination. Whatever he thought about her, he needed her, had to find some way of changing her mind. He tried her mobile but she wasn’t answering, not to him, at least. He left a mumbled half-meant apology and asked to meet up to talk things over – perhaps over dinner again? Tonight? The suggestion might promote a few happier memories; after all, less than nine hours ago they’d been having sex in the communal lift.
A few strides later and he had reached the crowd barrier manned by armed police at the edge of the security cordon.
‘Have you got your pass, sir?’ one of the constables, a woman, asked. Harry took in the brightly manicured fingers hooked around a Heckler and Koch MP5, and still couldn’t persuade himself that such things were right. He began scrabbling inside a pocket for his green-and-white barred security pass when the other policemen, without waiting, drew back the barrier.
‘Morning, Mr Jones, no need for that.’ The bobby saluted.
‘I’m sorry, do we know each other?’
‘You won’t remember but we met, briefly, after you gave a speech at the Hendon police academy. Fine speech you made that day; not heard a better one since. Pity you left the Home Office, that’s what many of us thought.’
‘Yeah. I thought that, too.’
And he was through, past the security cordon, crossing the empty street. Instead of the usual barriers of concrete and steel that protected the parliament building, now there was nothing but wide, open space. The forecourt of the House of Lords had been cleared of all the regular security checks and devices, and where armed policemen normally patrolled, today Harry found nothing but a troop of young adventure scouts, boys and girls, standing in the sun. Here, everything seemed peaceful and was assumed to be safe. In fact, by this time the policemen who usually patrolled the corridors within the parliament building were being withdrawn as their presence was deemed to be not fitting with the pomp and splendour of the occasion. To Harry, this seemed to miss the point. Hadn’t almost all serious threats to the lives of monarchs come from within this building, not from without, from the likes of Guy Fawkes and Cromwell and the rest? For a moment, it struck Harry that all the forces of security he had passed that morning were looking the wrong way, but life was often absurd. Then his mind strayed back to the field of poppies outside the church, and the small gatherings of loved ones who had come to remember. A disturbing thought suddenly grabbed hold of him and began to shake him. If he died, right now, today, who would be there to mourn? Who would bother to remember him? Who would come to plant a poppy in his name? Lacking any answer he found acceptable, Harry hurried on.
The Lords' Day (retail) Page 4