When he looked towards the throne, Harry found the Queen wearing an expression that at first he didn’t recognise. As both a soldier and a politician he had seen her in contrasting moods, sometimes looking stern on parade, sad and sombre at the Cenotaph, or gritting her teeth as she read out yet another prepared speech. There were occasions when the real woman burst forth, as when she accepted flowers from a young child on her birthday, or watched her mother’s coffin pass by. He’d even watched her burst into laughter in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, dancing a gentle jig like a young girl as her horse came home. He thought he was rather good at reading what was going on behind the royal mask, but on this occasion he couldn’t read her at all. She seemed far away, staring at some distant star, her mouth cast down, her expression betraying a little fear, he thought. It took him a moment to realise she was looking at the boys, unable for once to hide her heart. Her fear was for them. She caught him staring, knew he understood, and for a single heartbeat she allowed him to share her emotion before she looked away and hid once more behind the mask.
Of all the hostages it was John Eaton who appeared to be faring worst. Ever since their captors had separated him from his son, he seemed to have shrunk, as though the core of him had been hollowed out like an old tree. His shoulders hunched, his hands were clasped round his knees, his head bowed in a manner that had his normally carefully groomed hair falling about his face. It made him look not only unkempt but strangely old. His body rocked stiffly, back and forth, as though trying to force out the dread that had infested it.
They were all suffering. Most were over sixty years old and some older still, even older than the Queen. And there were those who were sick, chronically so, with weak hearts, or Parkinson’s, or MS, or some other malady for which they required daily medication. In the cart, along with the food and drink, Harry had a bag of medicines that had been supplied by worried loved-ones and doctors. Somehow it seemed a futile gesture – what, after all, were they trying to save them for? – but he had promised to try to hand them over. Attempting the delivery would also be a test of the captors; what mood were they in, how would they react? He trundled his cart towards one of the gunmen – the one who had been ready to shoot him in the back of the head. ‘I have these,’ he said, holding out the bag.
‘What are they?’
‘Medication. Pills. For some of the people here who are sick.’
‘But why do they need pills?’
‘To keep them alive.’
‘And what is the point of that?’
Before Harry had a chance to reply, the stock of the gunman’s weapon came down across the back of Harry’s hand, very sharply, causing it to explode in pain. He knew it was broken. As the pills dropped they scattered like rats across the floor.
‘I’m going to kill you!’ Harry screamed, but only to himself, yet he couldn’t control the look of hate that flushed into his face, and that, like the pills, was also wiped away by the stock of the weapon, sending Harry reeling to the floor with a gash that went down to the bone at the top of his cheek. He could taste blood inside his mouth. The gunmen were growing impatient.
He looked up, staring into the barrel – that bloody barrel – for what seemed to Harry to be a good chunk of eternity. Then it was waving him on. He could go, get up and leave, bind his wounds, live a little longer. But still he knew he would have to come back.
6.34 a.m.
The sight of Harry, bloodied and beaten, dragging himself from the chamber, had a profound effect on the hostages, throwing them into a still deeper state of gloom. The mood had infected the prince. For a while he seemed lost in a world of his own, his face creased in concern, twisting his signet ring in a manner that betrayed inner turmoil. To those who knew him best, it was a sign of an impending outburst. Finally, he turned to his mother. ‘I can’t do this any longer,’ he declared.
‘What is that?’
‘Sit here and be utterly useless.’
She sighed. ‘I fear we are all rather redundant at the moment. Anyway, no one could ever accuse you of being useless.’
‘That’s not always as I remember things.’
‘Don’t rake up the past, Charles. Not today.’
He sat silently for a while, wearing away at his ring with its three-flowered crest. He felt a deep sense of futility, not just today but for most of his life, a life that had been without use or clear purpose. ‘I hope it doesn’t sound cruel, Mama, but I so envy you and what you’ve had.’
‘What have I had, Charles?’
‘Love. Respect. From the people.’ His tone was wistful. ‘For sixty years I have watched you enchant them as their beloved monarch—’
‘Oh, your memory plays tricks. It has rarely been like that. Some wonderful times, yes, but more than the occasional annus horribilis.’
‘No, Mama, the failings were never yours. They have always adored you, and when the rest of us let you down and they couldn’t perhaps adore you, still they admired you. For almost sixty years you have sat on the throne and found fulfilment while I . . . I may not get sixty minutes.’
‘The role of heir, it’s always a troubled chalice, Charles. If I could make it otherwise. . . .’ For a moment she paused, trying to understand his confusion. ‘There are no auditions. It’s a duty imposed upon us, regardless of our talents or personal interest. The only common factor is that it must be done with dignity.’
‘There’s no dignity in being butchered like a sheep in the field.’
‘Please, Charles, it will not come to that.’
‘Oh, but it already has for me, every time I open a newspaper! There’s not a single part of my life that hasn’t been stripped from me and laid out to bleach in the sun. Even Christ was only nailed to his cross once.’
‘Charles!’ she rebuked, but he had no intention of being deterred. He stirred restlessly in his seat.
‘All I have to do is look over a hedge and I’m accused of interfering.’
‘You shouldn’t mind the rabble.’
‘But I do, I mind so very much. Being made into a public spectacle by those whose only interest is to find some piece of malice to fill their newspapers, when every crumb of nonsense is grabbed by them as eagerly as they lay their hands on a passing waitress. They are bastards.’ He spoke slowly, whispering his scorn, the words born not from a momentary anger but a lifetime of pain.
‘They do seem to have adopted their own divine right to rule,’ she conceded.
‘How I would love to get our own back, eh? Just this once.’
‘We should pass a law. This Christmas, around the table at Sandringham. How about that?’ Her tone was light, trying to lift his humour.
‘The Royal Retribution Act.’
‘We can take turns at writing a clause each.’
‘Would you let me start?’
‘No, I think that honour should go to your father.’
‘You strike a hard bargain.’
‘Not too hard, I trust.’
He offered a wan smile, and for the moment the dark curtain was drawn aside, but soon he was back tormenting his signet ring once more. When he spoke again, his words came slowly, set deep in earnest.
‘In the next life, I want to be something simple. Not a prince, just something very ordinary. A gamekeeper, perhaps.’
‘You believe in that, don’t you, in reincarnation?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know—’
‘Yes, I know, Mama. I’m also next in line to be head of the Church of England and I shouldn’t hold with such mystical nonsense.’
‘Just don’t go preaching it from any pulpit.’
‘I won’t. You know, it’s never been easy, walking that tightrope between my conscience and the constitution, but even a prince should be allowed to sit at the same table as his conscience occasionally. Above all a man has to be true to himself.’
‘And to his duty,’ she said, returning to her favourite theme.
‘Ah, yes. Ich Dien.’ He sighed. ??
?But what is duty unless it’s built on conscience?’
She was wondering where all his metaphysics was leading when suddenly he stiffened and grimaced in pain.
‘Charles, what is it?’
‘My bloody back. Killing me. Forgive me, bad joke. But I can’t sit here any longer.’
‘I fear we must.’
He closed his eyes in momentary contemplation, struggling with his pain, before continuing. ‘No, Mama. What I mean is I can’t sit here and watch those boys being murdered. My conscience – or is it my duty? I really can’t tell which – whatever it is, I won’t sit here uselessly and watch them suffer.’
‘What are you talking about?’ An edge of alarm had crept into her voice.
‘They remind me so much of our boys, with their whole lives ahead of them. I can’t allow that to be wasted, not if I can stop it.’
‘But . . . how can you stop this?’ From the sorrowful, defiant look in his eyes she thought she knew. ‘No, Charles, I will not allow it.’
‘As my Queen?’
‘As your mother,’ she pleaded.
‘And yet, Mama, you are my Queen and I owe you duty. But I owe those boys duty, too.’
‘Please, Charles!’ Tears were gathering in her eyes.
‘Don’t cry, Mama,’ he said softly. ‘You are the Queen. You are not allowed to show weakness, remember.’ He was gently teasing her, while she was struggling to control herself.
‘I am your mother, Charles. Sometimes such things must come before simply being royal.’
He smiled, full of affection. ‘At last, I have found someone who understands me.’
‘You cannot do this, Charles. I am your mother,’ she repeated.
‘And I your dutiful and most loving son.’
He sat quietly for a moment, composing his thoughts. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? She always said I would never be King.’
‘Who?’
But he said no more.
He reached over, and for a brief moment touched his mother’s hand. With that, he stood up.
6.38 a.m.
It was the rule set by the gunmen that the hostages didn’t move around without permission, so when the prince stood and stepped from his throne it attracted immediate attention. He walked slowly, with heavy, reluctant feet. It seemed to take for ever for him to reach the bottom of the steps. Masood was waiting for him.
‘And you want?’
The prince stood erect, as dignified in his uniform as the uncomfortable night had allowed, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. ‘I wish to take the place of the boys,’ he said softly.
‘Forgive me, I’m not sure I understand.’
The prince ran a tongue across his dry lips. ‘If you must shoot anyone, then let it be me, not them. I offer myself in their place.’
Masood eyed him with curiosity. ‘You want to be die? That is most noble of you.’
‘Noble?’ The prince raised his chin and attempted a sardonic laugh. ‘Not really. I just want to be a gamekeeper.’
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Just do the sensible bloody thing and let me replace them.’
‘But what sense is there in that?’
‘Sense? You ask about sense?’ Suddenly his voice rose in resentment and the veins on his neck began to stand out above his collar. ‘I have just watched you club a man half-senseless for trying to help the sick! Where’s the sense in that?’
‘Mukhtar’s mother was sick, too. She had a fever, with no medicine, and could not run when the air raid began. Your planes blew her small house apart. When Mukhtar found her, he needed help to make sure it was his mother and not one of the other women of the village. Perhaps now you understand.’
‘Then I grieve for him. But of all the people in this place, those boys are the youngest, the least guilty, the most blameless of any of us. In the name of whatever God you worship, you must surely realise that it cannot be right for them to die. So spare them.’
‘And take you.’
‘You want a trophy, I’m a much bigger one.’
‘Mr Wales – do you mind if I call you Mr Wales? My people never got into the habit of bending their knee to your family, no matter how hard your soldiers tried to teach us.’
‘Names can’t hurt. Call me what the devil you like.’
‘Then, Mr Wales, and with respect’ – and, for the first time, Masood’s voice showed neither mockery nor anger but a tinge of admiration – ‘I decline your offer.’
‘But why? Do you have no mercy?’
‘Mercy? Is that what you have shown my people? You still don’t understand, do you? We never wanted this war with you, we didn’t start it, but it has been forced on us year after year until our villages are destroyed and those we love murdered before our eyes.’ Despite the words, his voice was remarkably controlled. ‘And now you talk to me about mercy. We are way beyond that, I’m afraid. It is no longer the quality of mercy that matters but the quality of death, and its quantity, and the fuss it will cause. That, I think, has been your strategy in my country for many years, so now we follow it.’
‘Spare the sons. Let me stand in their place – please!’
‘We are all the sons of our fathers, and like all creatures there will come a time for you and for me to die. But their time must come first.’
The prince examined the man in front of him, searching for some spark of clemency, but as he stared he found only cold Himalayan stone. ‘You believe in God?’
‘Of course. We are all God’s children.’
‘Then I would like to meet this God of yours, to see if I can understand his quality of mercy.’
‘You seem in such a hurry to meet your Maker, but you must wait a little longer, I fear.’
The prince knew there was little purpose in arguing. This battle was lost. And with that understanding, the courage and resilience he had spent so many hours assembling began to flood away. He could feel his legs growing unsteady; it must be a twinge from his aching back, he told himself. He was shaking as he climbed back up the steps to his throne. He prayed no one would notice.
6.43 a.m.
They had delayed their game of Russian roulette because they had thought it best to wait until the gunmen were fully awake, but the beating up of Harry showed there was no point in hesitating any longer. As Tricia had sat and waited for the moment, she had begun to feel increasingly powerless and insecure. It was all very well putting on a tough front, but she knew that the penalties for failure at a time like this would be overwhelming, not just for her, but for many of the hostages, too. Her fate was linked inextricably with theirs, and her self-confidence had been worn down by exhaustion and her bruising encounter with COBRA. She had loaded the gun, but was relieved that someone else would have to use it for her.
The task fell to a detective inspector with SCD7, the Met Police Hostage and Crisis Negotiation Unit. His name was Parry. He had an excellent record but this situation was way beyond his usual orbit – most of his work involved preventing someone committing suicide, not killing dozens of others. In any event, negotiation requires dialogue, yet Masood had shown himself totally unwilling to play ball. He had demanded almost nothing from the authorities except for the release of his leader and the supply of two chemical toilets, and Parry had little to offer him in return apart from a choice of filling in his sandwiches. It had been a barren exercise, about as useful as testing a concrete parachute, as Parry had put it. Yet now, perhaps, he had a chance.
He made the call from the Ops Room, routed through the parliamentary post office. Tibbetts was listening on an extension, and everyone had eyes fixed on the screen. It seemed to take an age before they saw Masood walk across to answer the buzzing phone.
‘Good morning, Masood, I’ve got something interesting for you,’ Parry began, concentrating hard on the briefing notes spread out in front of him.
Masood gave no answer. He needed more bait.
‘We know about your Russian contact,’ Parry said.
 
; At last he bit. ‘And which Russian would that be?’
‘Bulgakov.’
Again a silence, but this time it seemed to have a more significant quality. Then: ‘I wish to talk with your superior, Mr Tibbetts.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment,’ Parry responded, trying to retain control of the conversation, ‘he’s tied up in a meeting.’
‘Don’t treat me like a fool, of course he’s there. He wouldn’t let you talk to me like this on your own.’
Damn the man. He knew this game, too. Parry’s heartbeat quickened, trying to force oxygen and inspiration into his brain, but it was hopeless. Across the room Tibbetts knew he had to make an instant decision. He wasn’t a trained negotiator and this was all too important to be left to an amateur, but what choice did he have? Reluctantly, he shrugged his shoulders and nodded.
‘I’ll see if I can get him out of his meeting,’ Parry said forlornly.
Tibbetts waited a few seconds, trying to give his colleague a little cover, before he spoke. ‘Commander Michael Tibbetts,’ he declared into his extension, as Parry scrabbled to lay his briefing notes out on the table before his boss. ‘How are you this morning?’ Tibbetts enquired, trying to give himself a little breathing space. Not too well, and about to get very much worse, he hoped quietly.
‘You can see for yourself,’ Masood replied. ‘Shall we get on with it?’
‘We know about Levrenti Bulgakov.’ He waited, giving Masood the opportunity to dispute the connection or profess ignorance, but he didn’t. ‘And about the money,’ Tibbetts added.
‘Money?’