As the sun was shining on a Labor victory, Giles decided to walk to Number 10. He left his Smith Square flat just after 3 p.m., strolled across to the Embankment and past the Lords and Commons on his way to Whitehall. He crossed the road as Big Ben struck a quarter past, and continued past the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, before turning into Downing Street. He was greeted by a raucous pack of pit bull terriers, hemmed in behind makeshift barriers.
“What job are you expecting to get?” shouted one of them.
I only wish I knew, Giles wanted to say, while being almost blinded by the endless flashbulbs.
“Are you hoping to be in the Cabinet, Sir Giles?” demanded another.
Of course I am, you idiot. But his lips didn’t move.
“How long do you think the government can survive with such a small majority?”
Not very long, he didn’t want to admit.
The questions continued to be thrown at him as he made his way up Downing Street, despite the fact that every journalist knew he had no hope of getting an answer on the way in, and not much more than a wave and perhaps a smile on the way out.
Giles was about three paces from the front door when it opened, and, for the first time in his life, he entered Number 10 Downing Street.
“Good morning, Sir Giles,” said the cabinet secretary, as if they had never met before. “The prime minister is with one of your colleagues at the moment, so perhaps you could wait in the anteroom until he’s free.”
Giles realized that Sir Alan already knew which post he was about to be offered, but not even the twitch of an eyebrow came from the inscrutable mandarin before he went on his way.
Giles took a seat in the small anteroom where Wellington and Nelson had reputedly sat waiting to see William Pitt the Younger, neither realizing who the other was. He rubbed his hands on the sides of his trousers, although he knew he would not be shaking hands with the PM, as, traditionally, Parliamentary colleagues never do. Only the clock on the mantelpiece was beating louder than his heart. Eventually the door opened and Sir Alan reappeared. All he said was, “The prime minister will see you now.”
Giles stood up and began what is known as the long walk to the gallows.
When he entered the Cabinet Room, Harold Wilson was sitting halfway down a long oval table surrounded by twenty-two empty chairs. The moment he saw Giles, he rose from his seat below a portrait of Robert Peel, and said, “Great result in Bristol Docklands, Giles, well done.”
“Thank you, prime minister,” said Giles, reverting to the tradition of no longer calling him by his first name.
“Come and have a seat,” Wilson said as he filled his pipe.
Giles was about to sit down next to the PM when he said, “No, not there. That’s George’s place; perhaps one day, but not today. Why don’t you sit over there—” he said, pointing to a green leather-backed chair on the far side of the table. “After all, that’s where the Secretary of State for European Affairs will be sitting every Thursday when the Cabinet meets.”
46
“JUST THINK HOW many things can go wrong,” said Emma as she paced up and down the bedroom.
“Why not focus on how many things will go right,” said Harry, “and take Grace’s advice, try to relax and treat the whole experience as a holiday.”
“I’m only sorry she won’t be joining us on the voyage.”
“Grace was never going to take two weeks off during an eight-week term.”
“Giles seems able to manage it.”
“Only one week,” Harry reminded her, “and he’s been fairly cunning, because he plans to visit the UN while he’s in New York, and then go on to Washington to meet his opposite number.”
“Leaving Gwyneth and the baby at home.”
“A wise decision given the circumstances. It wouldn’t have been much of a holiday for either of them with young Walter bawling his head off night and day.”
“Are you packed and ready?” asked Emma.
“Yes, I am, chairman. Have been for some time.”
Emma laughed and threw her arms around him. “Sometimes I forget to say thank you.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me. You’ve still got a job to do, so why don’t we get going?”
Emma seemed impatient to leave, even though it meant they would be hanging about on board for hours before the captain gave the order to cast off and set sail for New York. Harry accepted that it would have been even worse if they’d stayed at home.
“Just look at her,” said Emma with pride as the car drove on to the quayside, and the Buckingham loomed up ahead of them.
“Yes, a truly hysterical sight.”
“Oh, help,” said Emma. “Am I ever going to live that down?”
“I do hope not,” said Harry.
* * *
“It’s so exciting,” said Sam as Sebastian turned off the A4 and followed the signs for the docks. “I’ve never been on an ocean liner before.”
“And it’s no ordinary liner,” said Sebastian. “It’s got a sun deck, a cinema, two restaurants and a swimming pool. It’s more like a floating city.”
“It seems strange having a swimming pool when you’re surrounded by water.”
“Water, water everywhere.”
“Another of your minor English poets?” said Sam.
“Do you have any major American poets?”
“One who wrote a poem you could learn something from: The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.”
“Who wrote that?” asked Sebastian.
* * *
“How many of our people are already on board?” asked Lord Glenarthur, trying to remain in character as the car drove out of Bristol and headed for the port.
“Three porters and a couple of waiters, one in the grill room, one in cabin class and a messenger boy.”
“Can they be relied on to keep their mouths shut if they were interrogated or put under real pressure?”
“Two of the porters and one of the waiters were hand-picked. The messenger boy will only be on board for a few minutes, and once he’s delivered the flowers, he’ll hot-foot it back to Belfast.”
“After we’ve checked in, Brendan, come to my cabin at nine o’clock. By then most of the first-class passengers will be having dinner, which will give you more than enough time to set up the equipment.”
“Setting it up won’t be the problem,” said Brendan. “It’s getting that large trunk on board without anyone becoming suspicious that I’m worried about.”
“Two of the porters know the number plate of this car,” said the chauffeur, “and they’ll be looking out for us.”
“How’s my accent holding up?” asked Glenarthur.
“You’d have fooled me, but I’m not an English gentleman. And we’ll have to hope no one on board has actually met Lord Glenarthur.”
“Unlikely. He’s over eighty, and he hasn’t been seen in public since his wife died ten years ago.”
“Isn’t he a distant relation of the Barringtons?” asked Brendan.
“That’s why I chose him. If the SAS has anyone on board, they’ll check Who’s Who, and assume I’m family.”
“But what if you bump into a member of the family?”
“I’m not going to bump into any of them. I’m going to bump them all off.” The chauffeur chuckled. “Now, tell me, how do I get to my other cabin after I’ve pressed the button?”
“I’ll give you the key at nine o’clock. Can you remember where the public toilet on deck six is? Because that’s where you’ll have to change once you’ve left your cabin for the last time.”
“It’s on the far side of the first-class lounge. And by the way, old chap, it’s a lavatory not a toilet,” said Lord Glenarthur. “That’s the sort of simple mistake that could get me caught out. Don’t forget, this ship is typical of English society. The upper classes don’t mix with cabin, and the cabin classes wouldn??
?t consider speaking to those in tourist. So it might not be that easy for us to get in touch with each other.”
“But I read this is the first liner with a telephone in every room,” Brendan said, “so if there’s an emergency, just dial seven one two. If I don’t pick up, our waiter in the grill room is called Jimmy, and he…”
* * *
Colonel Scott-Hopkins wasn’t looking in the direction of the Buckingham. He and his colleagues were scanning the crowd on the quay for any sign of an Irish presence. So far he hadn’t seen anyone he recognized. Captain Hartley and Sergeant Roberts, who had both served in Northern Ireland with the SAS, had also drawn blanks. It was Corporal Crann who spotted him.
“Four o’clock, standing on his own at the back of the crowd. He’s not looking at the ship, just the passengers.”
“What the hell’s he doing here?”
“Perhaps the same as us, looking for someone. But who?”
“I don’t know,” said Scott-Hopkins, “but, Crann, don’t let him out of your sight, and if he speaks to anyone or attempts to go on board, I want to know immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” said Crann, who began to weave his way through the crowd toward the target.
“Six o’clock,” said Captain Hartley.
The colonel switched his attention. “Oh, God, that’s all we need…”
* * *
“Once I get out of the car, Brendan, make yourself scarce and assume there are people in the crowd looking for you,” said Lord Glenarthur. “And be sure you’re in my cabin by nine.”
“I’ve just spotted Cormac and Declan,” said the chauffeur. He flashed his lights once and they hurried across, ignoring several other passengers who needed assistance.
“Don’t get out of the car,” said Glenarthur to the chauffeur. It took both of the porters to lift the heavy trunk out of the boot and place it on a trolley as gently as if they were handling a newborn baby. After one of them had slammed the boot shut, Glenarthur said, “When you get back to London, Kevin, keep an eye on forty-four Eaton Square. Now that Martinez has sold his Rolls-Royce, I have a feeling he might do a runner.” He turned back to Brendan. “See you at nine,” he added, then got out of the car and melted into the crowd.
“When should I deliver the lilies?” whispered a young man who had appeared by Lord Glenarthur’s side.
“About thirty minutes before the ship is due to cast off. Then make sure we don’t see you again, unless it’s in Belfast.”
* * *
Don Pedro stood at the back of the crowd and watched as a car he recognized came to a halt some distance from the ship.
He wasn’t surprised to see that this particular chauffeur didn’t get out when a couple of porters appeared from nowhere, opened the boot and unloaded a large trunk on to a trolley, and began to wheel it slowly toward the ship. Two men, one elderly and one in his thirties, stepped out of the back of the car. The older man, whom Don Pedro had never seen before, supervised the unloading of the luggage, while chatting to the porters. Don Pedro looked around for the other man, but he had already disappeared into the crowd.
Moments later the car swung around and drove away. Chauffeurs usually open the back door for their passengers, assist with the unloading of luggage, then await further instructions. Not this one, who clearly didn’t want to hang around long enough to be recognized, especially with such a large police presence on the quayside.
Don Pedro felt sure that whatever the IRA had planned, it was more likely to take place during the voyage than before the Buckingham had set sail. Once the car had disappeared, Don Pedro joined a long queue and waited for a taxi. He no longer had a driver or car. He was still smarting at the price he’d been paid for the Rolls-Royce after insisting on cash.
Eventually he reached the front of the queue and asked the cabbie to take him to Temple Meads station. On the train back to Paddington, he mulled over what he’d planned for the next day. He had no intention of paying the second installment of £250,000, not least because he didn’t have the money. He still had just over £23,000 in the safe, and another four thousand from the sale of the Rolls. He thought that if he could get out of London before the IRA had fulfilled their part of the bargain, they weren’t likely to follow him to Buenos Aires.
* * *
“Was it him?” asked the colonel.
“Might have been, but I can’t be sure,” Hartley replied. “There are a lot of chauffeurs in peaked caps and dark glasses today, and by the time I got close enough to have a good look, he was already heading back toward the gate.”
“Did you see who he was dropping off?”
“Look around, sir, it could be any one of the hundreds of passengers boarding the ship,” said Hartley, as someone brushed past the colonel.
“I’m so sorry,” said Lord Glenarthur, raising his hat and giving the colonel a smile before he walked up the passenger ramp and boarded the ship.
* * *
“Great cabin,” said Sam as she came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. “They’ve thought of everything a girl needs.”
“That’s because my mother will have inspected every room.”
“Every one?” said Sam in disbelief.
“You’d better believe it. It’s just a pity she hasn’t thought about everything a boy needs.”
“What else could you possibly want?”
“A double bed, to start with. Don’t you think it’s a bit early in our relationship to be sleeping in separate beds?”
“Stop being so feeble, Seb, just push them together.”
“I wish it was that easy, but they’re bolted to the floor.”
“Then why don’t you take the mattresses off,” she said, speaking very slowly, “put them next to each other, and we’ll sleep on the floor.”
“I’ve already tried that, and there’s barely enough room to fit one on the floor, let alone two.”
“If only you earned enough for us to have a first-class cabin, it wouldn’t be a problem,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.
“By the time I can afford that, we probably will be sleeping in separate beds.”
“Not a chance,” said Sam as her towel fell to the floor.
* * *
“Good evening, my lord, my name is Braithwaite, and I’m the senior steward on this deck. Can I say what a pleasure it is to have you on board. If there’s anything you need, night or day, just pick up the phone and dial one hundred, and someone will come immediately.”
“Thank you, Braithwaite.”
“Would you like me to unpack your suitcases while you’re at dinner, my lord?”
“No, that’s very kind of you, but I’ve had a rather tiring journey down from Scotland, so I think I’ll rest and probably skip dinner.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“In fact,” said Lord Glenarthur, extracting a five-pound note from his wallet, “can you make sure I’m not disturbed before seven tomorrow morning, when I’d like a cup of tea and some toast and marmalade?”
“Brown or white, my lord?”
“Brown will be just fine, Braithwaite.”
“I’ll put the Do not disturb sign on your door and leave you to rest. Good night, my lord.”
* * *
The four of them met in the ship’s chapel soon after they’d checked into their cabins.
“I don’t imagine we’ll be getting a lot of sleep for the next few days,” said Scott-Hopkins. “After spotting that car, we have to assume there’s an IRA cell on board.”
“Why would the IRA be interested in the Buckingham, when they’ve got enough troubles of their own at home?” asked Corporal Crann.
“Because if they could pull off a coup like sinking the Buckingham, it would take everyone’s minds off those troubles at home.”
“Surely you don’t think—” began Hartley.
“Always best to expect the worst-case scenario, and assume that’s what they have in mind.”
“Where would they get the money to
fund an operation like that?”
“From the man you spotted standing on the dockside.”
“But he didn’t come on board, and took the train straight back to London,” said Roberts.
“Would you come on board if you knew what they had planned?”
“If he’s only interested in the Barrington and Clifton families, that at least narrows down the target, because they’re all on the same deck.”
“Not true,” said Roberts. “Sebastian Clifton and his girlfriend are in cabin seven two eight. They could also be a target.”
“I don’t think so,” said the colonel. “If the IRA were to kill the daughter of an American diplomat, you can be sure that any funds coming out of the States would dry up overnight. I think we should concentrate on those first-class cabins on deck one, because if they managed to kill Mrs. Clifton along with one or two other members of her family, the Buckingham would not only be making its maiden voyage, but its final voyage. With that in mind,” continued the colonel, “for the remainder of the trip we’ll carry out a four-hour shift patrol. Hartley, you cover the first-class cabins until two a.m. I’ll take over from you then, and wake you just before six. Crann and Roberts can cover the same watches in cabin class, because that’s where I think we’ll find the cell is located.”
“How many are we looking for?” asked Crann.
“They’ll have at least three or four operatives on board, posing as either passengers or crew members. So if you spot anyone you’ve ever seen on the streets of Northern Ireland, it won’t be a coincidence. And make sure I’m briefed immediately. Which reminds me, did you find out the names of the passengers who booked the last two first-class cabins on number-one deck?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hartley. “Mr. and Mrs. Asprey, cabin five.”
“The shop I won’t allow my wife to enter, unless it’s with another man.”