by Peter Watson
Lockwood nodded and smiled grimly. Keld was Secretary of State for Defence, the Prime Minister’s chief political rival within the party and, to many people, his heir apparent. Lockwood was sixty-nine, Keld twelve years younger, so age was on his side. He was the only person who came within sight of rivalling Lockwood in the party’s annual leadership election. If he stood. He was a very hard-line Defence Secretary.
Lockwood walked across the room and put his hand on Slocombe’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Thank you, Eric, realistic as ever. And thank you all for your advice. We’ll reconvene here tomorrow morning, when we’ve all slept on it. Tom, overnight what I want from you are the names of Scotland Yard’s top blackmail detectives. Maybe the Yard have a list of prime suspects, or tell-tell signs that might reveal who we are dealing with. There must be blackmailers already in jail, some of whom might have heard about this “Apollo Brigade”. But don’t tell anyone why. Not yet. Better alert O’Day at MI6, too.’
Lessor nodded.
The Prime Minister looked at Allen. ‘At some stage, we’re going to need an operations room of some sort. Not yet – not till the blackmailers make contact and we know exactly who and what we are dealing with . . . but be thinking about it, will you? And again, don’t let on what you are planning for, even to people within the building.’ He raised his voice slightly and said, ‘I don’t want to overstate things but it could be that the jobs of everyone in this room depend on this little problem. We don’t want it to blow up in our faces. We’ll meet here again tomorrow, at nine-fifteen. I don’t need to remind you to come in the back way.’
He glanced at his watch. Suddenly, to the others in the room he looked preoccupied. In a different tone, he said, ‘I must visit my grandson in Great Ormond Street hospital. The little blighter keeps having blackouts.’ There was a pause, but then Lockwood resumed in his original tone. ‘After that, I have to get changed. Dinner at the Danish Embassy. If only our royals were as innocuous as theirs.’
*
‘This way, sir,’ said the usher, showing Edward into a room filled with two round tables and gold-backed chairs with red velvet cushions. ‘I’ll tell Sir Francis you have arrived.’
Edward didn’t sit. The chairs looked as though they had been made for a troupe of circus dwarfs. Also, he preferred to pace angrily about the room. Not for the first time, he was miffed with the equerry. Edward half understood that, in the circumstances, he couldn’t attend the conference in Paris. But he had worked hard on his lecture and had been looking forward to the jaunt. That was only one thing. He wasn’t happy either that he couldn’t tell Wilma anything. Again, he understood why – but Wilma was probably the best security risk in the entire country and it would have made his life considerably easier to tell her what was happening. As it was, she was already sulking, banging things on tables and blowing cigarette smoke into his face.
Then there had been the phone call. The first message on the machine when he had arrived home that evening, after getting an earful in the office from Geneviève Chombert who was justifiably angry that he had let her down at the last moment, was from Nancy.
‘Hi! Remember me? This is your fast-food freak of a friend. Where are you, Woodie? Being alone in bed is bad enough, but being alone on the phone . . . I hate it. So long.’
That had been frustrating enough but what had really curdled Edward’s blood was the next message. ‘This is Sir Francis Mordaunt’s secretary at BP. I have an urgent message. He would like you to go to the royal box dining-room at Covent Garden Opera House, at eight-thirty tonight. The front-of-house staff will be expecting you and will show you where to go.’ No ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, no apology for disturbing his evening – not that he had anything planned, but that wasn’t the point.
Mordaunt’s imperious summons had really got to him. As Edward waited, or was kept waiting, he could hear the music in the auditorium. It was Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann, the Barcarole, to be precise. He loved it and, despite himself, felt his anger slipping away. That almost made him angry all over again.
The door opened and Sir Francis came in. He was dressed rather foppishly, in a black velvet bow-tie, with velvet pumps that had his initials extravagantly embroidered on them in gold thread. He waved Edward to a seat. In the auditorium the Barcarole swelled to fill the entire opera house.
‘Lockwood has formed a committee to cope with this “Apollo Brigade”,’ he said without any preamble. ‘The Home Secretary, the Chief Whip, the Cabinet Secretary and a few others. We wanted only Privy Councillors involved, but Lockwood’s worried about the political side so he’s got his own staff on the committee. As a result of that, Her Majesty and I think the Palace should be represented, and the Prime Minister has agreed.’ Mordaunt paused, picking up a knife that was laid where he was sitting. He stabbed the tablecloth. ‘We’d like you to take it on.’ For a moment he just looked at Edward, then scored a pattern in the tablecloth. ‘It’s tidy and the best solution from a security standpoint. Obviously, the Queen herself cannot attend this sort of committee . . . I’ve got a lot on anyway but also my face is too well known. If I spend much time in Downing Street, then sooner or later someone’s going to ask why. I could send the Lord Chamberlain, but why involve more people than we have to? I hope you agree.’
Edward’s instincts about the chairs had been right. They were uncomfortable and weak – he felt as if he was about to fall off. But that was also because he was slightly giddy now. If he joined this illustrious committee, how often would it meet? What would happen to the Royal Collection? Hillier was already away sick. At the same time, Edward realised that he didn’t have much choice. One simply didn’t turn down requests from the Palace.
‘Hillier’s in hospital, as you know. My secretary can hold the fort for a few days – but she’ll have to be told.’
Mordaunt started to object but Edward found himself talking the equerry down. ‘If she doesn’t know, she can’t field all the questions she’ll be asked. With Hillier already off, if I am suddenly unavailable as well it could look very odd.’
Mordaunt played with the knife again. He scored the tablecloth again. He glared at Edward, who had never been on the receiving end of the equerry’s famous frozen stare. It certainly was terrifying. ‘Very well.’
Edward nodded.
Outside, the Barcarole was ending. Mordaunt stood up. ‘There’s an interval now. You’d better be gone when the others get here. The committee meets at Ten Downing Street at nine-fifteen tomorrow morning. Nine-fifteen prompt. Let’s talk as soon as it’s over.’
Edward could hear people starting to leave their seats. As he went through the doorway of the dining-room, the back of the royal box was just being opened by one of Covent Garden’s bewigged flunkeys. Edward didn’t wait to see who Mordaunt’s fellow guests were; he quickly found the stairs to the lobby.
Outside, it was a warm night, though as he looked up the sky again threatened rain. He walked down Floral Street and turned into Covent Garden piazza, where a troupe of amateur acrobats was entertaining the crowd. One of the troupe was continually left out of everything, made fun of, the patsy or fool, there to be picked on by the other performers and laughed at by the spectators. Edward stood and watched for a while, thinking about his few minutes in the Opera House. How many deals had been done in that room? he wondered. It must have seen more famous faces, and more powerful personalities, than many more obvious venues. He had always wondered where the ‘corridors of power’ were actually located: now he had been allowed a glimpse of one of them.
Tomorrow he would get more than a glimpse. Tomorrow, Wednesday. He would be here after all and could see his father and Barbra. It would probably be embarrassing but he would do it all the same. His father always stayed at the Stafford: he would call the hotel when he got home. The old man would take it as proof that the conference story had been a lie all along. Well, it couldn’t be helped.
His mind came back to the evening’s events. Why, Edward wondered, as he
moved off down King Street, had Mordaunt chosen not to sit on the committee himself? He was busy, yes, but this matter was surely so important, so vital, that it took precedence over everything else.
Edward had reached Leicester Square before he had an answer – or, rather, before he could admit to himself that he had been manoeuvred into a trap. It was, he had to concede, a classic piece of diplomacy, at which Mordaunt excelled. If the Prime Minister’s committee succeeded, then everyone connected with the negotiations would get a pat on the back, from Lockwood to Mordaunt to Edward. However, if it failed, Mordaunt would be in the clear. He could move the blame to Lockwood – and Edward. Like that acrobat in the piazza, Edward was the patsy.
Chapter Eight – Wednesday
The policeman stopped and knocked lightly on the shiny mahogany doors in front of him. He opened one and leaned through. Edward heard him say, ‘Dr Andover, sir’, and he was then shown through immediately into the Cabinet Room. As Edward was introduced, a steward brought in a tray of coffee. He set it on the table and retreated, closing the double doors behind him. Evelyn Allen made sure they were properly latched and sat down. He was the last to do so.
Edward had been disappointed, minutes before, to have been brought into Number Ten the back way. He had been looking forward to stepping through that famous portal, but instead had been driven in an official car to a small, anonymous door just off Horse Guards Parade, and then led through a warren of corridors that made St James’s Palace look like a well-thought-out barracks. He had arrived two minutes early for the meeting but even so all the others were already in the room. The Prime Minister wasted no time in getting started.
Lockwood turned to the Home Secretary. ‘Facts first,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll come to the second thoughts any of you might have had overnight. Tom?’
Lessor took a pen from his pocket and played with it. ‘O’Day at MI6 is standing by, but our man at the Yard is Chief Inspector Robert Leith. Technically, he’s number three in the Serious Crimes Squad. Fifty-one, very bright – he’s put fifteen blackmailers inside in the last four years.’ Lessor held up a sheet of paper. ‘There are forty-one blackmailers currently residing as guests of Her Majesty; these are their names and – er – addresses. As to modus operandi, any characteristics that might betray who we are up against . . . I’m told there is no list but that Leith will be a help when and if he’s brought in. The bad news, however, is that blackmailers are not ordinary criminals. Most of them have never committed a crime before and rarely do so again. They take to blackmail because they stumble across some sensitive information – as seems to have happened in this case.’ Lessor nodded, meaning he had finished.
Lockwood sucked the earpiece of his spectacles. ‘Anyone else? Overnight thoughts?’
Hatfield put a finger inside the collar of his shirt and stretched his neck. ‘I’ve had one thought,’ he said. ‘At some point, presumably, they are going to ask for money. Is the price negotiable? There must be some haggling, I suppose – or am I mistaken?’ He looked at the Home Secretary. ‘Scotland Yard will know.’
Lessor nodded, meaning he would check it out.
Lockwood swivelled in his chair, looking at each of the others in turn. ‘Anyone else? . . . Anyone else had any relevant thoughts at all during the night?’
Midwinter leaned forward. ‘Are you convinced by Mordaunt’s arguments, Bill? I mean, you do expect this “Brigade” to ask for money, rather than something political?’
‘I’m not sure what I think,’ replied Lockwood. He looked at Edward. ‘I take it that story about Apollo being a homosexual, like Blunt, was accurate?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Edward.
The Prime Minister looked at Midwinter again. ‘All we can do is wait – and try to be prepared.’
‘Then I have one other question.’ Midwinter returned Lockwood’s stare. ‘What about the cash, Bill?’
‘Well, if it ever comes to that, the Queen will pay –’
‘Yes, yes . . . I was assuming that. But . . . I am also assuming the demand is going to be pretty steep. No doubt Her Majesty has the money, in some form or other, but if . . . if she has suddenly to convert assets into liquid cash . . . well, can it be done quickly and might it be a security weakness?’
Lockwood nodded. ‘Who knows what the Queen is worth? . . . But I take your point, Bernard. This “Brigade” might just ask for a massive amount of money – a hundred million pounds, for instance. That would raise a few eyebrows.’ He made a note on a pad in front of him. ‘Thank you. Anyone else?’
The Cabinet Secretary coughed. It was the first sound he had made at either meeting and all eyes turned to him. ‘As you asked, Prime Minister, I have given some thought to an operations room. That, however, raised a subsidiary point. Assuming that contact is made with the blackmailers, and assuming that the handover of the money is the best occasion we shall have for . . . catching these people, then the best group to deal with it would be Unit 15 from SAS.’
Lockwood nodded. ‘Yes – that’s right. That doesn’t give us any problems, does it?’
The Cabinet Secretary hesitated and Slocombe answered for him. ‘SAS comes under defence. Under Keld. He would have to know. He’d find out if we didn’t tell him.’
There was silence in the room. Somewhere else in the building a door banged shut. ‘Ssso,’ said Lockwood, at length. ‘Either we bring in Keld – or we don’t use Unit 15.’
‘But why not bring in Keld?’ Lessor loathed party in-fighting.
Slocombe steepled his fingers. ‘Instinct,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The hard lessons of a hundred little victories and as many – almost as many – defeats.’
Lockwood nodded. He picked up the note he had written on a pad and slipped it into a pocket. ‘I agree. We leave George Keld out of this one. If that means we can’t use Unit 15, then we don’t use Unit 15. Scotland Yard have the Special Patrol Group, which guards embassies and diplomats; there’s the outfit that guards Heathrow. Tom, this is one for you.’
‘I’ll have a decision by tonight. And put them on standby.’
‘Good. Now, before we disband, I remind you once again that this committee and its proceedings are secret, very secret. No notes, no cryptic asides to your wives or mistresses, no enigmatic paragraphs in your diaries tonight. Is that clear?’ His cold stare raked the room. One by one the others nodded acquiescence.
‘Hmm. Now, Dr Andover, fix a meeting at the Palace, will you? You came in here the back way just now, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well . . . you’d better find a back way for me – into the Palace, I mean. If I keep going in by the front door, some of our nosy friends in the press might think I’ve come to resign.’
*
When Edward arrived at Barry Coxwold’s small mews shop-cum-garage, the owner came forward to greet him. Edward knew him vaguely, from car meets and auctions. It did not matter that he couldn’t afford one of Barry’s cars. Edward was an enthusiast, a fast driver of his own much cheaper and much restored classic car, and therefore one of the fraternity.
‘Edward!’ Coxwold exclaimed, pumping his hand. ‘Who shall I introduce you to first? Age – or beauty?’
Edward grinned, stepped over to Barbra and kissed her on both cheeks. She was dressed in a navy blazer and very pale, very expensive, blue jeans. She had her own head-hunting agency in Stanford and obviously did very well.
‘Edward, elegant as ever.’ She had a deep, expensive voice, clotted with the best Bloody Marys money could buy. ‘Such lovely blond hair.’
‘What there is of it. You look wonderful, Barbra.’ And she did. She looked barely forty-five, let alone the fifty-four Edward knew her to be.
He turned to his father. They shook hands, then embraced. In many ways, Edward’s father had adjusted well to life in California. Edward had loved his mother, Elisabeth, but she had been a homely soul. Edward’s father had been upset by her death but liberated too. He had left for America a year later, by which t
ime Edward was at university, and had never looked back, either personally or professionally. The one thing . . . the one thing that Edward couldn’t stomach in his father now, though, was that he dyed his hair. It was brown, verging on red in the wrong light. In California it might be normal – and acceptable – but to his son, who had known him as the original, mousy-haired architect, it was absurd.
‘What do you think?’ said his father. He meant the car, not his hair.
Edward walked around the machine, its bodywork gleaming with that unmistakable Ferrari red, the black and yellow badge shining on its nose, the chrome wheels looking as though they had never been anywhere near a real road. ‘I think you must be doing very well, to be able to afford this.’ He grinned at Barry Coxwold. ‘You too.’
Coxwold said, ‘I’ll leave you alone with her, for a bit. She grows on you.’ He retreated to his office.
Barbra, Edward and his father stood looking down at the car.
‘What’s the horsepower?’ said Edward.
‘Three thousand.’
‘Oh my!’ whispered Barbra.
Edward’s father walked around to the far side of the car and peered into the driver’s footwell. When he stood up, he said, ‘What happened to Paris?’
Edward blushed. ‘Problems at work.’ He never mentioned the Palace if he could avoid it.
‘How often do you see the Queen in your job, Edward?’ Barbra was not so coy.
‘I’ve been there five months – and we haven’t met yet.’
‘Not once?’
‘Not once.’
Barbra looked disappointed.
‘And that American woman, Nora . . . the ice-cream heiress . . . do you still see her?’ Edward’s father had got into the car now, and was testing its ‘feel’.
‘Not Nora – Nancy. She’s fine. Yes, I still see her.’
‘What’s her second name?’
‘Tucker.’
‘Ever hear of Tucker’s ice-creams, Barbra? Edward’s girl comes from San Francisco.’