The Lords' Day (retail)

by Michael Dobbs

  Thirty-six minutes. And in little more than that he would be back in his mountains, where the last few months would seem as a passing, feverish dream.

  Hastie knew as much, too. Time was running out. His attention kept switching from the chamber to his watch, and back again, knowing that they must soon, very soon, wash their hands of Archie Wakefield and go it alone, knowing that the consequences of doing so would be some shade of disaster. As his eyes flicked back once more to the screen, he saw the Queen seeking approval from Masood to use the facilities of their makeshift toilet. She rose in her seat, dignified, slowly, as befitted an elderly lady who had spent a night in extreme discomfort.

  And as she made her way to the closet at the side of the throne, shadowed as always by the gunman in the explosive jacket, in another part of the chamber Hastie saw Archie Wakefield assist the struggling Celia Blessing to her feet and follow.

  12.45 a.m.

  The field telephone in the chamber rang. Masood picked up the receiver and nestled it to his ear. It was Mike Tibbetts. The police man had considered it only right that he should volunteer for this unpleasant duty.

  ‘Masood, I thought you’d like to know. The aircraft with your passenger on board will be landing in Peshawar in approximately thirty minutes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ For the first time through the siege the young tribesman appeared to show excitement.

  ‘I think we need to discuss the arrangements when he gets there.’

  ‘They will be very simple,’ Masood responded, and began to bark animated instructions into the phone.

  12.47 p.m.

  The closets behind the throne had no internal lighting. As a result, it was necessary to leave the door ajar in order to allow those inside sufficient light to find their way around. Many of those in the chamber found this situation embarrassing and lacking in dignity, but none had to withstand the humiliation that was inflicted upon Elizabeth. Where she went, the gunman and his jacket followed, not just up to the door but even inside the closet itself. She tolerated it without complaint; she had no choice in the matter and in any event it was no worse than the conditions many people of her age had to withstand. With so many people in the chamber the closets were kept busy, and occasionally a small queue developed, waiting, although that somehow never applied to the Queen herself. Masood would permit no more than one or two people to linger, but on this occasion the next in line was Archie and the clearly distressed and frail Baroness Blessing, whom he supported with an arm around her shoulder. They seemed an incongruous pairing, he so swollen, almost bloated, and she with a frame so like that of a sparrow that she all but disappeared within the folds of his arm. They glanced around them, seemed to exchange a whisper, almost a smile.

  As the door to the closet opened wider to allow Elizabeth and her escort to emerge, Archie and Celia Blessing were no more than four feet away. Archie straightened, and seemed to grow several inches in stature. The gunman hovered in the doorway, immediately behind the Queen, almost touching her. It was time.

  In a scene that would be replayed for as long as anyone wished to define the meaning of sacrifice, Archie’s body seemed to shake and he hurled his entire seventeen-stone bulk at the much smaller man. Archie was neither well nor fit but it was an unequal contest. They both tumbled into the closet. As they did so the Baroness, now remarkably recovered, grabbed the Queen by the arm and threw her to one side. Elizabeth fell heavily, dragging Celia Blessing behind her, while Archie and his victim disappeared from view.

  12.47 p.m.

  TATP is an explosive that can come close to matching the power of TNT, but it doesn’t react in the same manner. TNT creates its power by breaking up its molecules so that the fragments then recombine to release a large amount of energy, while TATP explodes in a very different way, breaking each of its solid molecules down into separate molecules of gas. These gas molecules of ozone and acetone don’t react or combine with each other but in the first instant of their creation they occupy the same volume as was originally occupied by the solid explosive. Yet they are gas, and can take the place of the solid only at a far, far higher pressure. The gases expand outwards, forcing air and any other surrounding materials away at vast velocities.

  The first surrounding materials that the explosion encountered were the two bodies. The gunman was beneath, on his back, flattened by Archie, whose huge frame lay like a smothering blanket on top. Death for both of them was instantaneous, but not in Archie’s case purposeless. His body absorbed some of the blast wave of the bomb, reducing its impact, but what remained looked for the route of least resistance, which was through the open door, blasting it off its hinges and sending it cartwheeling into the chamber. The next weakest link was the roof of the closet, little more than timber and not load bearing, and this was fractured into splinters that flew into the air, some of which became embedded in the roof of the chamber itself. But the walls, the walls, it was the walls that did it! The walls of the closet were generously thick, particularly that one which stood against the throne, for it was this wall that supported the vast golden edifice of the canopy behind the throne. It cracked and crumbled and large amounts of debris were blown from it, but its heavy Victorian carcass proved wonderfully resilient. And it was this tough, resistant wall that stood between the bomb and those in the chamber. The main force of the explosion went to the side, and up in the air, not out across the red leather benches.

  Yet, even so, the damage it caused was substantial. As the bomb gave up its life it created a huge amount of noise and dust. Debris flew everywhere, causing many injuries in the chamber. Most of those on their feet were knocked over, and while the hostages found some protection behind the leather benches they were all thrown into a state of deep confusion. What most of them hadn’t realised was that the bomb was not the first explosion to take place. In the fragment of time that passed between Archie’s assault on the gunman and the detonation of the jacket, explosions were taking place at many points around them, but so close together in time that for most they melted into one. The SAS had placed frame charges against all the side doors that led into the chamber, both on the ground floor and also the doors that gave access into the galleries. The charges exploded simultaneously, triggering the booby traps in the Coca-Cola cans. These later proved also to have been made of TATP with detonators fashioned, as Hastie had predicted, from nothing more complicated than toyshop party poppers.

  There were other explosions. In the same breath as their colleagues were setting off the frame charges, the three SAS snipers hidden in the ventilation shafts and the television tower received their authority to fire. Two of them immediately claimed their victims, including the sniper in the tower who had been holed up for almost twelve hours, but the third couldn’t get his shot away. Sod’s law. At the crucial moment a hostage had stood up to ask permission for a toilet break, covering his line of fire. Only three down.

  The fourth was Masood. He, of all people, proved too trusting. Even as he was talking enthusiastically about arrangements in faraway Peshawar, he had no means of knowing that the telephone receiver he was using had a remotely activated explosive device concealed in the ear piece. It was only small, of necessity, but it blew a four-inch hole in the side of his skull. As Tibbetts later said, the only pity was that he never knew what hit him.

  Now the chamber was full of smoke and bewilderment, with the cries of the wounded hostages mingling with the explosion of flashbangs hurled by the SAS as they stormed the doors. These flashbangs were stun grenades, designed to create a blinding light and enormous noise that incapacitated rather than killed, and it was in the midst of this maelstrom of confusion that the royal protection officer, forewarned and well trained, got in his kill. The Pakistani high commissioner was standing right behind him and had been disorientated by the grenades. He was still rubbing his eyes, trying to recover his senses, when the protection officer stretched across the leather bench and from a distance of less than a foot put a bullet in his brain.

>   Yet there were still three gunmen alive and armed. Even if they were temporarily blinded, with little idea of where they were, they could still release ninety rounds from their Kalashnikovs in three seconds. In such crowded conditions, surrounded by hostages, the death toll could still be huge. Harry had known what to expect. Even unarmed and with a broken hand, that gave him a huge advantage. As soon as Archie had disappeared inside the closet, Harry had dropped to the ground to shield himself from as much of the ensuing blast as possible. He also knew that he shouldn’t look towards the doors when they were blown or he’d be blinded by the flashbangs, but the gunman nearest him, the one who had beaten him so badly, was not so wise. When Harry reached his side, he was only just beginning to recover his sight, yet his weapon was being raised and readied to fire. Harry was behind him. He hooked his left arm under the other man’s throat, crying with the pain as he hauled the gunman off his feet, twisting him round as he did so. With his good right arm, Harry knocked the weapon from his grasp. Now he was on top of him, the other man face down, yet still stretching for his weapon that lay only inches beyond his fingers. Harry’s left arm was still round his throat. He put his knee in the back of the other man’s neck and pulled back, savagely, as hard as his screaming hand would allow, until he heard a click. The body shook, then went limp.

  Elsewhere in the chamber, matters did not go so smoothly. One of the two remaining gunmen had been momentarily lost within the fog of confusion and smoke. He managed to discharge half his magazine before he was killed. One of his victims was the royal protection officer, standing over the body of the Pakistani high commissioner.

  The final gunman was found crouching behind one of the red leather benches. As he saw the approaching SAS, he pushed his weapon away and cowered in submission. He was the last man to die, with eleven bullets in his head.

  Yet success exacts its price. Seven hostages died. Two were shot by the same gun that caught the protection officer, while the Italian ambassador was killed when he was struck by the flying door of the closet, blown from its hinges. One elderly peer succumbed to a heart attack and another was hit by a splinter of wood that turned to shrapnel. There was Archie, too, of course. And Celia. She and the Queen had been closest to the source of the main explosion, and while the Queen’s body had been protected from much of the blast by the steps that led to the throne, Celia had no such cover. She shielded her monarch from the cascading debris, but her own body was completely exposed. The sparrow would fly no more. Celia Blessing and Archie Wakefield died together.

  Thirteen

  12.53 p.m.

  ELIZABETH WAS MOTIONLESS WHEN the medical team reached her, yet she stirred as soon as they had removed the body of Baroness Blessing that was lying against her. She had been too embarrassed to move while her friend could not, and even a little ashamed that she had survived. The helpers brushed the dust and debris from her face and checked her vital signs, then sat her up and brought to her side both a wheelchair and a medical trolley.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, rebuking them and rising with as much dignity as possible to her feet, allowing them to provide no more assistance than a supporting hand.

  ‘We must get you straight out, Ma’am,’ they insisted. ‘There might be another bomb. We need to secure the area.’

  ‘A little late for that, aren’t you?’ she suggested, dismissing them.

  It was Charles who had taken the heavier knock. He had been thrown from his throne and tumbled down the steps, striking his head and badly twisting his ankle, yet it might have been far worse. A chunk of wooden shrapnel had pierced the heart of his mother’s throne, which sagged wretchedly to one side. Elizabeth stared at it, reflecting on what might have been. They implored her once more to clear the scene but she continued to ignore them, insisting on walking through the chamber with her son, calming the other hostages and giving what comfort she could to the injured. When, at last, they came back to the spot where the body of Celia Blessing lay, they stood awhile in silent prayer, alongside the archbishop. Only then did they prepare to leave, yet still they insisted on doing things in their own manner. They would not go quietly, through some rear door – sneaking out like thieves, as Charles put it.

  ‘Are there cameras outside?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes, sir,’ one of the armed officers replied.

  ‘Good,’ he muttered. ‘Let the buggers see us walking out. Let the whole bloody world see us!’

  And even though he was limping he offered his mother the support of his arm. ‘Go out as we came in, eh, Mama?’

  But she wouldn’t depart. ‘Not until I am properly dressed.’

  He bowed his head in understanding. With as much dignity as his crooked leg would allow, he hobbled back up the steps to the foot of the throne. The imperial crown was there, covered in filth and with one of the supports looking decidedly sickly after a direct hit from a piece of flying rubble, but otherwise it appeared intact. He knelt and with a handkerchief brushed away as much of the dirt as he could. Then, stiffly and with extreme care, he carried the crown down the steps to where his mother was now sitting.

  ‘I fear it’s not looking its best,’ he said.

  ‘It looks rather special to me,’ she replied. She inclined her head gently, and he fixed the crown back on. Only then would she agree to leave.

  Waiting for them at the Sovereign’s Entrance was one of the State cars, a specially constructed Bentley that carried no registration plates. With considerable tenderness the prince helped his mother into the rear seat, ensuring that her crown remained firmly in place and came to no further harm, before claiming his own seat at her side.

  ‘We’ll have to return to the palace along Birdcage Walk, Ma’am,’ the accompanying protection officer explained. ‘Can’t get anywhere near Trafalgar Square. There’s a huge crowd gathered; half the country seems to be there.’

  ‘But I think we should let them see us,’ she said.

  ‘Security, I’m afraid, Ma’am.’

  ‘Security? From our own people? As long as we’ve paid the Congestion Charge, I rather think we can risk it, don’t you?’ The sweetness of her tone implied the swiftest lash. Abashed, the protection officer began muttering into his radio.

  They pulled slowly away from the Sovereign’s Entrance. As they did so they passed a troop of American soldiers. They were a motley collection with a variety of uniforms, some even had moustaches and straggly hair, but no American troops had ever stood more rigidly to attention or presented their arms with more pride. Above their heads, the Stars and Stripes caught the breeze and gently unfurled. Topolski was still saluting long after the car had passed from view.

  1.14 p.m.

  As rapidly as their condition allowed, others were being led from the Lords. Once they had recovered their wits they began to congratulate each other and to express thanks for the support they had found in each other’s company.

  ‘I think we should all leave together,’ one member of the Cabinet suggested.

  ‘I will leave with my son,’ John Eaton replied awkwardly.

  No one argued with him; indeed, he had noticed that the expressions of relief and joy they had been sharing had not extended to him. A wall had risen between them. He knew why.

  He said nothing to Magnus, couldn’t find the words, simply placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing as though to reassure himself that it was real and not a trick of his imagination. William-Henry walked alongside. Neither of the boys would take his eye.

  As they made slow passage out through Pugin’s vast doors, their footsteps echoed forlorn and hollow from the tiled floor. ‘We got out, Dad. That’s the main thing, isn’t it?’ Magnus said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The only thing.’

  ‘Not quite,’ his father whispered. ‘I died in there, too.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘My colleagues will already be planning the details of my burial, editors polishing the casket. Everyone will be so wise after
the battle is over.’

  Magnus stopped and at last turned to face him. He found tears of sorrow gathered around his father’s eyes, but also tears of relief. ‘What you did in there, Dad . . . you did it for me. I know that. I appreciate that,’ he said, struggling to find the words they had never used. ‘I will never stop loving you for it.’

  ‘Then I have found the happiest of epitaphs.’

  1.20 p.m.

  The Super Hornet prepared for touchdown. At last Daud Gul could set aside the fear that had dogged him ever since he had climbed into this machine. He’d been blasted off ships, been thrown about, flown thousands of miles, been refuelled in mid air high above the Indian Ocean, so high that he felt he could touch the stars, but now he would be landing on solid ground – his ground. He had seen the mountains rushing beneath the wings. Almost there.

  There was a jolt as the plane hit the concrete surface; it was a mild sensation compared to the shakings and battering he had received earlier in the flight. The tyres beat their path across the seams in the runway, striking up a steady and hypnotic ‘kerthump, kerthump’. He closed his eyes, his lips forming a silent prayer of gratitude to those brothers and tribesmen who had won him his freedom, and to his son most of all. He knew the risks they must have taken; he vowed they would not be in vain.

  The plane came to a halt. Daud Gul opened his eyes, yet what he saw when he looked out from the cockpit surprised him. There was none of the expected bustle, no sign offering him welcome to Peshawar, merely a line of military vehicles on either side that were swarming with American troops.

  ‘This is not Peshawar,’ he said, almost to himself.

  The pilot’s voice crackled in his ears, as polite as ever. ‘No, Mr Gul, and it’s not even Pakistan. Peshawar’s a little under a hundred-and-fifty miles to your right. On the other side of those mountains.’

  ‘So . . . where are we?’

  ‘Bagram. The main American airbase in Afghanistan.’