‘I am not talking about personal morality,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m talking about public duty, and I make no apology for complaining when I find myself seated beside the Chinese head of state, trying to engage him in diplomatic small talk over dinner, while your condemnation of him and his entire regime is still ringing in his ears. “Appalling old waxworks”, is that what you called them?’
‘That’s unfair. You know those comments came from private diaries.’
‘Oh, Charles,’ she sighed, ‘nothing we do can ever be truly private, haven’t you learned that yet?’
‘And why not? Are we supposed simply to sit back and watch our lives, our loyalties, our way of life, ripped apart by those who spend their days scribbling in sewers? Should we raise no hand in protest when we see them doing the same to those we love – our children, even? That might have been good enough for you, but for me – never!’
‘Charles, you wrote a book about it all – or had your friend write it for you. About the most private things in your life, your family, your marriage, your . . .’ Now her hand did move, only slightly, but in a dismissive gesture. She had no desire to mention her son’s adultery, even if he had written about it and discussed it in agonising detail on television. But she didn’t need to mention it; he knew exactly what she meant.
‘Still you blame me – for the marriage!’
4.26 a.m.
Tricia Willcocks had moved to one of the private COBRA suites to take the call. She’d been avoiding it, even though she knew it must come as inevitably as weeds follow the spring sun. Whatever its outcome, she knew matters could never be the same; you didn’t cross the President of the United States and call her bluff yet manage to walk away with no scars. ‘Madam Home Secretary,’ she heard the voice say. ‘Madam President,’ she replied. They were like two fencers presenting their blades.
‘I think we need to speak,’ the President began.
‘I thought we had spoken.’ It was a blunt, instinctive and undeniably harsh rejoinder by Willcocks, which left her wondering whether she had done it intentionally, as a deliberate tactic designed to unsettle the other woman, or whether she had been unsympathetic simply because it was her nature. Perhaps it was the whisky egging her on – but, no, she hadn’t finished that, the glass was still half full.
President Edwards pretended to ignore the slight. ‘It’s less than eight hours to their deadline. I need to know what your intentions are.’
‘My intentions’, she replied, ‘are to ensure the security of my Queen and my country. From all comers.’
A long pause. Then, slowly: ‘Please understand. We want to help.’
It was an olive branch; Tricia Willcocks grabbed it, only to snap it in two. ‘One of my earliest political memories was of another American President saying much the same thing. About a place called Vietnam.’
‘Don’t fight me, Tricia.’
‘Then back off, Madam President.’
But neither of them knew how. They hadn’t risen so high by seeing the other man’s point of view.
Edwards sighed. ‘I see this in one of two ways. Let’s move ahead – say, a couple of months. You and I are together at the White House, and America is throwing the biggest street parade you’ve ever seen, in your honour. The whole world sees us standing side by side, just as we did throughout this crisis. How does that sound?’
‘I have this thing about invitations delivered on the point of a bayonet.’
‘I offer nothing but the hand of friendship.’
‘So why is it at my throat?’
‘For pity’s sake, Tricia, what’s with all this hostility? America has rights, too, under mutual defence treaties and any number of tenets of international law.’
‘Which would those be, precisely?’ Willcocks demanded in a voice marinated in scepticism.
‘I’ll get the State Department to send you over a list.’
‘And that’s your second option, is it? America just takes over once again?’
‘I think the world would understand why we were so keen to help. Look, I didn’t want to have to make this point, but others will so I’m just going to go ahead and do it for you . . . This is a crisis of your making as much as anyone’s. You’re under pressure, an untested minister thrown into a position way beyond her swimming depth – one who, sadly, had screwed up big time and who gave assistance to the leader of the terrorist group in the first place. I could see some very unpleasant headlines coming out of that.’
‘You wrap your threat up so skilfully, Madam President,’ the Englishwoman said, leaning forward as she spat into the phone. It brought her closer to the whisky.
‘I don’t threaten. I simply point out to you the likely outcome. Instead of a tickertape parade and marching bands, they’ll be lining up to throw trash at you. Your career ruined. That’s not what I want, believe me. I admire the way you fight your corner, stand up for yourself. I’d like to think that if we got to know each other better, we’d be friends.’ Hell, it was another olive branch. It would probably be used for kindling, but what had she got to lose? ‘But know this. If you end up being responsible for the death of my son, there is nothing I can or would do to stop them bombing your reputation back into the Stone Age. I hope I make myself clear.’
‘Perfectly. But I think there’s something you may have overlooked.’
‘I’d like to hear it.’
‘Scenario One. We go in, release the hostages. I’m a superstar. In which case, what need do I have of invitations to the White House?’
‘And if you fail . . .’
‘Ah, Scenario Two. Well, that’s the point where I get round to blaming it all on you.’
‘On me?’ President Edwards sounded astonished.
‘Not just sending Delta to get in our way, yet another example of American imperialism at its most inept. I think the media would insist on knowing about your personal interference. Of your hyper-emotional state. The mother of all muck ups.’
‘Jesus H. Christ, you play it rough.’
‘It’s a rough situation,’ Tricia retorted, noticing that her nervous tapping of the table had brought her hand to a point directly beside the glass.
‘Don’t you understand that I don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to me. All I want is my son.’
‘And that’s your weakness, just as it has been John Eaton’s. Two parents whose judgement was consumed by a guilty conscience.’
‘Guilt? What the—’
‘And if those kids die, don’t blame me. It should be on your conscience for as long as you live.’ And now she drank.
There was a sound that may have denoted a breathless gasp – or was it a half-muffled cry of agony? – from the other end of the phone. ‘I feel sorry for you, Tricia, a woman who seems unable to distinguish between love and guilt. Who simply doesn’t know the difference. What a sad, sad life you must have led.’
‘Don’t patronise me!’ she bit back, immediately wishing she hadn’t. The personal note had got to her. For the first time she was rattled, it had burrowed under her skin, and they both knew it.
‘I didn’t mean to patronise. I apologise. There are some things in this life we simply can’t control.’
Tricia bit her thumb in the forlorn attempt to ward off the sudden onrush of pain. Did this bloody woman know? Had someone told her – about all those husbands, about the waiting rooms and medical treatments, the excruciating examinations and the catastrophic disappointments she had been forced to endure as she had tried to become the mother she so desperately wanted to be? As each fresh round of doctors and sour-faced technicians had dug their way into her, each more urgent than the last, they seemed to have scraped away a little more of what had been left of the lining of Tricia’s soul. Nothing had worked, and she had withered inside. She was barren. Now every hormonal flush seemed to mock her, and she wondered if the other woman was mocking her, too.
‘One last thing I’d like to know, Home Secretary, if I may? Do you intend to moun
t an assault? And if so, when? I think I, of all people, have a right to know.’
‘It’s not decided. Perhaps not even necessary.’
‘Not necessary? But how . . . ?’
‘We have a Russian card to play.’
‘A Russian card? I don’t understand. Please – please, Tricia. Save my child . . .’
Her child? Her child? Tricia’s life had been filled with other people’s snivelling children, smiling at them, pretending she was happy for them, and suddenly she could take it no longer. She cut the connection. As the room fell silent she reached for the comfort of her glass, only to find it empty, like so much in her life. Slowly, she refilled it with tears.
4.47 a.m.
‘I wasn’t the only one to write a book,’ the prince muttered bitterly. ‘She wrote one, too. Everyone writes books, so why not me? Why shouldn’t I? Why should I always be the one on the receiving end? The whole wretched world seems to be filled with authors who know more about me than even I do.’
‘But you are the heir to the throne. And books can have such a bitter aftertaste,’ his mother replied. ‘I had a governess when I was a child. Crawfie – you’ve heard me talk of her. A most wonderful, loving woman. Sixteen years she was with us. Helped make me who I am, and much better than I was. Then she blabbed. Wrote a book. We could never speak to her again.’
‘But I had to speak out,’ he persisted. ‘I felt so dreadfully let down.’
‘You have always looked at the dark side of the moon, Charles.’
‘And you?’
‘For myself, I have always tried to see the best in a situation. I have to. How else can one deal with such odious creatures as Mr Eaton?’
‘You couldn’t deal with Diana, any more than could I.’
‘True enough. Do you remember, she once upstaged me at the State Opening? Used it to launch her new hairstyle. I seem to remember having a few harsh words about it at the time – but in private. Always in private, Charles. And, yes, I always knew she would be impossible.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘Oh, but I think I did. I believe you failed to listen.’
‘I had to marry her. What choice did I have? All the sensible girls had turned me down.’ He bit his lip. ‘I feel – I felt,’ he said, correcting himself as though to give himself a little distance from what he was about to say, ‘that you gave me no support.’
‘I was there for you, whenever you wanted me. I didn’t interfere, that’s true, because I know how difficult these things can be. Being married to your father could scarcely be described as a relentless song of joy, but we’ve made it work. And there seemed to be enough people already interfering in your marriage – no, not Camilla, I mean your friends, the entire world’s press, even the Government. But I was always there for you. And I always will be.’
‘Didn’t seem that way. What did the poet Larkin say? They mess you up, your mum and dad.’
‘I believe his language was a little more brutal.’
‘Wives, too.’
‘And children.’
‘Not my children!’
‘Not them, thank the Lord.’
‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad . . .’ He shook his head in sorrow.
For once she didn’t admonish him, and, for the first time, turned towards him. ‘Yes, there’s a lot of your grandfather in you, Charles. I loved him so.’
‘And your Uncle David?’
‘Him? No. He was a romantic, too, like you, in some ways. But he never had a fraction of your commitment to any cause other than his own, and that awful Mrs Simpson. You have always been a man of enthusiasms, and if they have seemed to me to be perhaps sometimes misplaced, I’ve always thought it better to be a slave to enthusiasm than to indulgence.’
‘I’ll take that as praise.’
‘And I meant it as such. You dream of a world as you would want it to be, Charles. Sadly, I have to deal with the world as it is.’
‘It seems we’re both going to have to do that today.’
5.13 a.m.
They were still waiting for her, gathered in the main conference room of COBRA. She had refreshed her lipstick but beneath the make-up she was pale and the eyes were rimmed with a red frost. She was dabbing at her nose, which appeared damp, and she stumbled slightly as she sat down in her seat. Exhaustion was biting at them all. These were the most dangerous moments, the greyest watches of the night as it stretched out towards dawn, the hour when colours fade, resolution wanes and judgement fails. Such hours are often left to those with the most to prove, those who are driven, obsessed by some inner sense of failure that requires redemption. Perhaps that is why so many politicians are night birds, and amongst them, Tricia Willcocks was a hawk.
‘So, we play a little Russian roulette, I think, gentlemen,’ she declared. ‘Yes, the Russian factor, use that to confuse the hell out of them.’ And if that didn’t work, she could blame the Americans, or the incompetence of the British military. Whatever it took, Tricia Willcocks would survive. Yet, the earlier enthusiasm that some had found for the Russian connection had faded; her announcement was greeted with silence and distracted doodling on the margins of notepads.
‘They’re pirates,’ she continued, trying to rouse them. ‘Up to their old tricks. They haven’t changed. Ambushing us in our own port, and it all under false colours that had us looking elsewhere.’ The analogy was exhausted, almost too much at this time of the morning. ‘Time to blow the bastards out of the water!’
She was trying too hard, being too masculine and, although they didn’t know it, she was also a little drunk, but her alcohol-fuelled energy failed to find much reflection within the room, not even with Harry, who felt as though some wild animal had clamped its claws deep into his shoulders, leaving him numb and useless. Exhaustion. It got to them all, in their different ways.
‘So this is what we do, gentlemen,’ she continued, intent on grabbing her moment. ‘We use the Russian link against the terrorists. Try to undermine their confidence, make them realise they’ve no chance with this one. At the same time’ – she turned in the direction of Hastie – ‘we make sure we’re ready for an assault, if it’s needed. The moment they give us cause.’
Eyes flickered guiltily towards the screen and its two young hostages.
‘And we deal with the Americans,’ she added, making it sound like an afterthought. ‘Disarm them.’
At last someone spoke up. It was the Chief of the Defence Staff, the head of the armed forces. ‘Home Secretary, I really don’t believe that’s necessary. I understand the situation is contained and—’
‘They’re heading home?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Then they must be disarmed,’ she repeated, quietly, but with force.
‘Consider the repercussions, Home Secretary. An armed altercation between the two greatest allies on the earth. Surely it gives the Russians – if that’s who’s behind this plot – exactly what they want.’
But her confrontation with the President had convinced Willcocks that such an outcome might be very much to her advantage. ‘Hold on a minute, you just think of the repercussion if we don’t! Goodness’ sake, it was bad enough being spat at for being Washington’s poodle all the way through the war in Iraq. If we give in now, you might as well rip up the rules of cricket and start whistling Dixie through your rear ends. But that’s not going to happen. It stops. Here.’ She was jabbing the table with her bitten finger.
‘It can assist only our enemies,’ the Chief implored.
‘You’d play the spaniel?’
‘I would do anything to preserve the Western alliance, Home Secretary. It’s what I’ve dedicated my professional career to.’
‘No, general, your career’s been dedicated to serving your Queen and your country, not the Americans. That’s what you’re about – what all of us in this room are about. The Americans – they can go hang. They’re over played, over stretched and over here!’ she exclaimed. She rather liked that, n
ot bad for this time of the morning. ‘They’ve got – what, forty or fifty men? And you’re sitting there quaking? Time to call their bluff, general. Take them!’
‘Home Secretary, that is not an order I feel comfortable with.’
‘Shouldn’t we simply play for time?’ another voice added. ‘It’s worked pretty well so far.’
‘Are these the sons of Nelson?’ Her feminine scorn filled the room. ‘The successors to Wellington and Churchill? You could take those men with a catapult.’
‘I don’t wish to take them at all,’ the Chief responded doggedly. ‘They are our allies.’
‘So what are they doing here?’
‘As I understand it, the Americans have offered to help. In our fight against terrorism.’
‘I’d take that more seriously if American money hadn’t funded every IRA bomb that did murder on the streets of London. They want to take control. It’s the American disease, got to show they’re in charge. Well, not here, gentlemen, not while I’m in this seat.’
She was laying down her claim to pre-eminence, primus inter pares, while the Prime Minister was otherwise engaged, and several around the table began to rustle in discomfort. A manufactured cough interrupted the tension. It was the man from the Attorney General’s office, a mild-looking fellow with sparse hair and a desperately unfashionable thin moustache that he was wiping nervously. ‘It does raise the point, Home Secretary, that lines of authority are a little confused at present. Here we are, no Prime Minister, no Cabinet, proposing to attack a royal palace. Why, technically I don’t think that’s legal without the permission of the monarch herself and she . . . well, she can’t give it, can she?’
‘If we succeed in releasing Her Majesty, do you doubt for one moment that she will approve?’
‘Well, no . . .’
‘And if we are not successful in that . . .’ She paused while they considered what she was implying. ‘Well, sadly the problem will have resolved itself.’
‘But—’
‘A m I not the most senior Cabinet Minister in a position to issue instructions?’