The Lords' Day (retail)

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Home Secretary?’

  ‘You cannot proceed.’

  ‘But what are the alternatives?’ someone asked.

  ‘You cannot proceed – yet. If we order an attack that results in the death of the head of state, without it being clear even to the most jaundiced eye that there was no other option, then each and every one of us will be as culpable as those who signed the execution warrant of Charles I. Go in too soon and it would be a disaster. We are staring history in the face, gentlemen, we must hold our nerve.’

  ‘We should go now, while they’re sleepy, catch them off guard,’ Hastie said. ‘If we delay, it will only get worse.’

  ‘I disagree. It might make our position very much easier, brigadier. Justify everything you may be forced to do, no matter what the outcome. If we wait, we test the terrorists, and they will give us the absolute proof that we had no other choice.’

  ‘What more proof do you need, Home Secretary?’

  Suddenly they had all caught up with her, and as they came to understanding, they felt sick. All eyes went to the screen, and to the spot where Magnus and William-Henry, the two youngest hostages, were sitting. The gunmen had said these boys would be the next to die, and if that came to pass, their innocent blood would wash away all guilt for what happened thereafter.

  Eight

  3.58 a.m.

  ‘ARE YOU ASLEEP, MAMA?’

  She said nothing, but pursed her lips in a withering expression of denial.

  ‘Some seem to have managed it,’ the son protested in his own defence. Charles Philip Arthur George, the Prince of Wales and, alongside that, the Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Lord of the Isles and Butt of Much Criticism, stretched out his stiffening legs and surveyed the scene in front of them.

  ‘Then they have a better conscience than I,’ his mother replied.

  ‘You’ve no reason for reproach.’

  ‘They might die, these people, all because of me. And they know it. If I weren’t here, then none of this would have happened.’

  ‘These thugs would have found some other excuse.’

  ‘Perhaps, but today I bear the responsibility.’

  ‘As every day.’

  They were speaking in whispers, leaning towards each other, conscious of the gunman immediately behind them and trying not to attract attention, looking out at the others rather than at each other, as they had done for so much of their lives.

  ‘I am afraid, Charles.’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘You – afraid?’

  ‘Not for myself, of course, not that, but for what this day might do to us. The Family. The monarchy. I fear it might bring about the end of it all. The people might say that if this is the price we have to pay, then we no longer wish it.’

  ‘I’ve often thought precisely that myself,’ he responded wistfully.

  She shot a caustic look at him from the corner of her eye.

  ‘But it’s true, Mama. I sometimes wonder if any life is worth the indignities that are inflicted on us.’

  ‘We have a choice?’

  ‘It’s too late for you and me, of course. But the boys . . . They should be able to make up their own minds.’

  ‘And if you’d been given a choice?’

  ‘In another world, another life, who knows?’ he replied, his voice filled with unfulfilled dreams. Then, as so often, the other side of his nature kicked in. ‘Things grow so contrary, Mama. You never know, this nonsense might just as easily make us more popular.’

  ‘Perhaps. But public opinion is like one of those heavy cannons they used in the Great War, so desperately unreliable, so fearfully inaccurate, yet hurled at one target after another until nothing is left but wasteland.’

  ‘Democracy is often heavy pounding.’

  ‘Particularly in the hands of Mr Eaton.’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘Of that?’ She bent her head in the direction of the crumpled figure that was her Prime Minister.

  ‘I thought – I had read – that you got on well.’ His mother’s views were often a mystery to him, communicated through formal notes, blazoned across front pages or occasionally thrust across the breakfast table at Balmoral. Their minds rarely followed the same track.

  ‘Mr Eaton would like people to think that he and I have a warm and glowing relationship, which is why he spreads the story. Anything for a headline. A man of mirrors, not of substance.’

  ‘You don’t normally express such strong opinions.’

  ‘I’m not normally allowed, but for one day in my life, Charles, I think I shall grant myself a little dispensation. A queen is allowed a few of her own judgements, particularly on a day like this. I’m just so desperately sorry you have been forced to share it with me.’

  ‘Kismet.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Charles, you are here because I insisted you should be. Dragged you here against your will, we both know that.’

  ‘I suppose I’m used to it.’

  ‘I thought I was doing right, showing you off as my son, the heir, the next in line. You’ve waited so long.’

  ‘You’re tired, Mama. Don’t torment yourself.’

  ‘I am also old, Charles. I’m beginning to think I’ve lived perhaps longer than was wise.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘But it’s true. Over these last years I’ve seen so much of what I cherish, those things that truly matter to me, demeaned and under mined. The Church, our Family, our gentle way of doing things in this country. Everything nowadays is taken to extremes. What happened to us, where did all that respect for each other go?’

  They sat staring at their attackers, weapons in their hands, watching over their captives, before she returned to her theme.

  ‘In some ways it would have been better had I died young, like my father.’

  ‘You talk of death as though it were simply another part of duty,’ he protested.

  ‘In some ways it is. The death of a monarch is also a time of renewal.’

  ‘Not for the chap involved.’

  ‘We have to separate self from it all, Charles.’

  He wrung his hands in agitation. ‘One can’t simply be a mere cipher, a monarch without one’s own identity.’

  ‘You cannot, perhaps.’

  He bristled. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘This is a day when we must all do our duty, quite irrespective of self.’

  ‘Are you implying that I don’t always know my duty?’ he demanded, growing heated. It was a raw point. So many others had said as much, accused him of being selfish, interfering, a prince who didn’t act up – or down – to his station, but he was damned if he would hear it from his mother.

  ‘I imply, Charles – oh, I imply that my shoes are killing me,’ she said, rubbing one ankle against the other and adeptly changing the subject.

  ‘If I were you I’d kick them off. To hell with what others think.’

  She sighed. ‘I think you’ve rather made my point for me.’

  4.02 a.m.

  COBRA was in turmoil. They sat stunned at what she was proposing, and struggling to find the weakness in it.

  ‘So we are to sacrifice our firstborn,’ whispered a civil servant.

  ‘No one will die, unless the terrorists insist on it,’ Willcocks retorted.

  ‘Is it not time to consider, in these dire and unique circumstances, letting their leader go?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Think it through, man,’ she replied waspishly. ‘They are assassins, cold-blooded killers. And you would let them go – why, because you are afraid to stand up to their threats? Leave this country open to every blackmailing bastard? Who do you think we are,’ she spat, ‘Belgium?’

  ‘We might at least propose the outline of some deal – a trial of Daud Gul by an international panel, perhaps, or release in return for a promise of his future abstinence.’

  ‘Trust the word of a terrorist? Are you mad?’

  ‘Something, we must try something!’ the civil s
ervant responded, quite in despair. ‘We cannot allow them to kill the Queen.’

  ‘You think giving in to terrorism would save her? Surrender – never! Every drop of blood shed in future by these swine would be on your hands – and her hands, too. We’d be throwing away the rules of justice on which we have built all our freedoms – for what? For whom? Is there any other person in the country we would do that for?’ She glanced around her; her eyes were exhausted but behind them still burned a peculiar passion. ‘Imagine the headlines – oh, not tomorrow or the next day, perhaps, but soon, and for ever after. She would no longer be the symbol that brings us all together but a target of envy. We’d be right back to the days of divine right, them and us, the haves and have nots, one rule for them and to hell with the rest of us. Can’t you hear Rupert Murdoch already sharpening the axe? And once the media started, they’d do just as effective a job of murdering her as those terrorists, except it would be done more cruelly. No, you wouldn’t have saved her, you’d have dragged her to the block!’ Her nostrils flared with defiance. ‘So if you value your Queen, as I do, this is the only chance she’s got.’

  ‘It’s a deal with the Devil,’ the civil servant persisted.

  ‘No!’ she retorted, her pale eyes blazing with anger. ‘What you propose – giving in to terrorists – is that!’

  The civil servant pushed himself back in his seat as though trying to force himself away from the table, appalled at the ferocity of her attack, and struggling with its logic. Others around the table rustled in discomfort, until Tibbetts spoke. ‘There might be an angle we haven’t considered – that I hadn’t considered until a few minutes ago. I’ll ask Harry Jones to explain, it’s his baby.’

  Harry looked at Tibbetts; the policeman raised an eyebrow in a gesture of apology and despair. He was pushing his friend into an arena full of lions, but what alternative did they have?

  ‘We lack solid evidence, it’s all rather circumstantial,’ Harry began, ‘but there appears to be a strong Russian connection here.’

  There was a marked change in the atmosphere around the room. Most around the table sat up attentively; they liked the sound of that, having the Russians to carry the blame. Even Tricia, for once, looked interested in what he had to say.

  ‘Bulgakov. Levrenti Bulgakov,’ Harry began.

  ‘Levrenti Valentin Bulgakov?’ the man from MI5 interjected, as though he had been offered the finest of clarets and delighted at last that matters might be moving back on to his patch.

  ‘He’s one of the Russian playboys we allow to squat in this country while they conduct ancient vendettas against each other and squander their ill-gotten billions. Bit like Danegeld; they pay their taxes and we let them get on with it, until it breaks out into open warfare on the streets.’

  ‘Or on our soccer pitches,’ Five added smugly.

  ‘Bulgakov’s relatively low-profile, so far as I know . . . ?’ He looked for reassurance at Five, who shrugged and nodded in acquiescence. ‘Certainly not one of the usual suspects,’ he agreed.

  ‘But he seems to have known enough about the siege to have made several considerable fortunes from it.’

  ‘Has he? Has he?’ Five exclaimed, suddenly taken in excitement. ‘My giddy aunt, yes! Don’t you see . . .’ He glanced around him. ‘Bulgakov was old KGB. Sharp-end stuff. Stirring up discontent in one quarter and ruthlessly squashing it in another. If memory serves me correctly, his last operational posting was in Afghanistan – up to his armpits in Uzbeks and Pashtus and Wazirs and Mehsuds and all their delightful little blood feuds.’

  ‘You’re saying he might know Masood?’ Willcocks pressed.

  ‘Quite possibly. Might even have slept with his granny.’

  ‘Russians!’ she exclaimed, with enthusiasm.

  ‘It may not be quite that simple,’ Harry continued. ‘He may also have been playing a game against his fellow Russians. One of the casualties of this siege is the Russian attempt to float off a huge chunk of their metals industry. It was supposed to come to the market later today but that’s been ruined, and in the process could well come close to ruining several of the Russian oligarchs he’s fallen out with. This isn’t just about money, it also seems like a complicated game of settling old scores.’

  ‘So he had motive, ability and opportunity,’ Willcocks declared, counting the tally on her painted fingers, her mangled nail forgotten.

  ‘And it’s far from being the first government he’s held hostage,’ Five added, as others began to talk with relief and growing excitement about the connection. They were all willing to clutch at an opportunity to absolve themselves of responsibility for infanticide, and even Willcocks joined in the new spirit. The Russians might prove an ideal ally to help muddy the waters.

  ‘Before we get ahead of ourselves, there’s something else,’ Harry said, interrupting the flow of enthusiasm. ‘Bulgakov’s dead.’

  The announcement threw the room once more back into silence.

  ‘His body was discovered an hour or so ago,’ Tibbetts added.

  ‘Nothing too peaceful, I hope,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Too early to say,’ the policeman replied. ‘Found at the bottom of some steps by Regent’s Canal. An autopsy’s underway.’

  ‘But unless we believe in divine intervention, I think we can assume it was probably foul play,’ Harry continued.

  ‘Pity,’ Hastie said. ‘We might have been able to use him to negotiate.’

  ‘Perhaps we still can,’ Willcocks said, her voice lower, having lost its sharp, combative edge. ‘Let them know that their little plot has been rumbled. Tell them we’ve frozen their money, or that their paymaster’s run off without them, that they’re on their own. Surely it gives us some sort of psychological advantage, something we can use.’

  And they were off again, talking animatedly across each other, suggesting ways in which the Bulgakov connection might bring them out from beneath the shadow. Their cell door had been opened, even if only a fraction, and they were desperate to hurl themselves through it.

  ‘Hang on, if he was murdered, don’t we need to find out who killed him?’ Harry tried to intervene, but in their relief and their haste, no one seemed very interested.

  4.13 a.m.

  Inside the chamber they had come to the bleakest hour of the night, when hope and resilience fade into a greyness of the soul. The prince stirred, unable to sleep.

  ‘You don’t suppose there’s a chance these men are undercover reporters from the News of the World, do you?’ he asked, feigning levity.

  ‘I fear not,’ his mother replied.

  ‘You can never tell nowadays.’

  ‘Just this once I wish they were. I wish so many things – that we might wake up and discover we were merely players in one of your dreams.’

  The prince stiffened. His fondness for analysing his own dreams had been the cause of much ridicule over the years. ‘Why do you mock me?’

  ‘I don’t, Charles. At least, I don’t intend to. If I’ve been clumsy, I apologise.’ Silently, she scolded herself for being clumsy, but he had always been a sensitive soul. ‘You’re a man who is so easily bruised.’

  ‘There you go again,’ he said sorrowfully. It wasn’t the time to revive old squabbles, but they were exhausted, tense, too tired to resist themselves.

  ‘That isn’t criticism, Charles, it’s a fact of life – of your life, at least. You have something of your grandfather in you.’

  ‘He was never attacked in the way I have been.’

  ‘True, but he took advice to protect himself. And you’ve never taken kindly to advice.’

  ‘Not from your advisers.’

  And they were off, cantering round a course that had seen so many headlong races in its time.

  ‘You have never allowed me to help, Charles. You lecture the entire world about their problems, yet you never come to me with your own. You treat me like a public audience.’

  ‘You never knew – never wanted to know – what was going on i
n my life.’

  ‘Not true!’ A close observer might have imagined that she raised her hand, just fractionally, and slapped it down again in frustration. ‘Sometimes I have known too much, more than any mother ever should. But I have turned more blind eyes to my family than there are jewels in a crown.’

  ‘Blind eyes and closed doors,’ he muttered resentfully.

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘One of my earliest childhood memories, Mama. I was five – possibly six. I had no playmates, no friends. I seem to remember that my favourite game was walking past the guardsmen on duty. It forced them to come to attention and stamp their feet in salute. I even started throwing snowballs at them one winter, until Papa ordered the sentries to start throwing them back.’

  ‘A royal life is often a lonely one, you know that.’ It was a comment meant to convey sympathy, but he mistook it for complacency.

  ‘So then I came one day to the door of your office – do you remember? No, of course you wouldn’t. I asked you if you would come and play with me. Like other mothers.’

  This time she offered no comment of any kind.

  ‘You said you were busy, and you closed the door on me.’

  ‘A royal life is often a busy one, too . . .’

  ‘Too busy for your children? It’s a mistake I’ve always been careful to avoid.’

  She bridled at the implied insult, yet in the same moment her heart was shredding. The confusion drained all the colour and tenderness from her reply. ‘You have been a magnificent father.’

  ‘But as a prince?’ he demanded. He seemed determined to provoke her, to find the least intended of slights and to punish himself. It was a habit that had grown old with him, and been with him too long to avoid.

  She considered his question carefully – too carefully; she had never been one to take royal duties lightly. ‘As a prince,’ she replied softly, ‘you have strayed from the path too often.’

  ‘The path?’ He was colouring as words of anger rose in his throat. ‘Do you mean the path set out by my father? Or your sister? Or your uncle? Or your great-grandfather? Or—’