The Lords' Day (retail) (15 page)

It was at this juncture, as the smell of hot gun oil hung across the chamber, that an act of immense symbolism took place. As hostages ducked and cowered from the bark of flying bullets,
Elizabeth, the woman at the centre of this unexpected storm, turned to whisper to her son. Then she rose to her feet. She was a small figure, almost overwhelmed by the Gothic indulgence that
surrounded her, but the silence that followed her gesture was as complete as it was sudden. She stood for a while, staring at them all, her captors included, the gaze that could freeze from fifty
paces. She unclipped her train, while her son gathered the yards of ermine-trimmed silk and began to fold them into a large cushion, which he placed on the carpeted floor between the two thrones.
Then she reached up and took the crown from her head. She handed it to her son, who, with great reverence, lowered himself to his knees and placed the rough emblem on the cushion of silk. The
meaning was clear. The crown hadn’t been abandoned but it had, for the moment, been put aside. Death, the ultimate leveller, was casting its shadow across them all.

Elizabeth took her seat once more, and when she was settled, nodded in the direction of Celia Blessing. Without a word the blush-faced baroness hauled herself to her feet, curtsied before her
queen and, as gracefully as she could in the circumstances, disappeared inside the closet.

4.10 p.m.

So the rules of the game were set. Masood announced that all mobiles, pagers and ceremonial swords were to be handed over. There was to be no communication with those outside
the chamber except by himself, while those inside the chamber were to engage in no sudden movements, no surprises, no changing of places or even trips to the toilet without permission.
Transgressions would result in retribution, and it had already been made clear what form that would take.

There were conditions for the authorities, too, once the field telephone had been connected to the exchange. Power cuts and disruptions of any sort or for any reason would be treated as the
prelude to an attack. Any hint of gas being introduced to the chamber or drugs hidden in the food, anything that might be designed to knock the hostage takers out, would be handled in the same
way.

And Masood insisted that the live broadcasting of events within the chamber must continue and be played out in real time. No delays, no breaks, nothing but constant coverage. This was not just a
siege, it was a cultural humiliation and he intended that it should be seen by billions around the globe. There would be no hiding place for the authorities, no sudden tricks that could be played
out in darkness or behind the scenes. The glare of publicity had always been the rebels’ friend, and this the biggest show the world had ever seen.

4.43 p.m.

Tricia Willcocks had at times been likened to a spring tide. Her water levels were always high, forming an irresistible wall of emotion that was bound to create extreme
turbulence whenever it encountered something, or someone, standing in her way.

When she reached Tibbetts, he was in the small post office. He had temporarily deserted the Ops Room in order to supervise the installation of the portable telephone exchange and give Harry his
final briefing. He wanted to be on hand if anything went wrong, and not be left looking helplessly at a television screen. No sooner had the telephone system been installed and initial contact made
with Masood than one of the receivers began to ring. It was the Home Secretary, determined to make her presence felt.

‘Commander Tibbetts,’ she began, in a breathless manner that shrieked of irritation, ‘I thought we had agreed you would get rid of Harry Jones.’

‘I apologise, Home Secretary, I thought you instructed me to ensure he stops bothering you.’

‘He’s bothering me now. I’m told he’s right in there with the hostages.’

‘Then I’m sorry for your discomfort.’ He tried to hide the irony in his tone.

‘He’s unreliable. He shouldn’t be there. No telling what damage he might do. Get rid of him. Is that clear enough for you?’

‘Perfectly. But—’

‘No “buts”, Commander.’

‘Then how can I put this, Home Secretary? I’m afraid we can’t get rid of Harry Jones. It’s too late for that. You see, whether we like it or not, he’s now part of
our dealings with the terrorists. They know his face, and the more they see it, the more they’ll relax in his presence. Perhaps give themselves away. Reveal some little weakness or other. And
that’s what we desperately need, to find some chink in their armour. Anyway, I think a familiar face reassures the hostages.’

‘Are you refusing to follow my instructions?’

He paused, to gather his temper. ‘I’m suggesting they make little operational sense.’

‘Perhaps we should try to find someone who thinks otherwise, Commander.’

Damn the woman. His tone grew tougher. ‘As is your privilege, Home Secretary. But from your point of view, I don’t think that would make much operational sense, either.’

‘What the devil are you talking about?’

‘You start demanding resignations and . . . well, how should I put this? The press are going to start wondering just how far up the ladder the blame game should go. And I think
they’ll discover you sitting at the top of that particular ladder, won’t they?’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Home Secretary, I’m merely trying to point out some of the facts of life, facts that might prove far more uncomfortable to you than the presence of Harry Jones. I’ve got a job
to do and I’d like to get on with it. You want heads on a platter, then I suggest you wait till this is finished. If it all goes pear-shaped you can throw me to the wolves and hope they
won’t come after you, too. Use me as cover. And if, by some minor miracle, we manage to find a way out of this little shambles . . . well, you’re a politician. I’m sure
you’ll find some way of using it to your credit.’

‘I don’t like your attitude.’

‘You want me to deal with terrorists or take time off for charm school?’

‘What sort of bloody-minded policeman are you?’

‘One with twenty-three years’ experience and with the worst job of his life to do. So I’ll do my best to stay out of your hair, Home Secretary, and—’

He faltered. Harry had suddenly appeared at the door of the post-office room. He was sweating, bending a little under the weight of his large and unwieldy load.

‘And I’ll make sure Harry Jones doesn’t pitch his tent on your front lawn either. Anyway, he’s a little busy right now. Taking care of Mrs Antrobus.’

4.57 p.m.

Eaton was a man who was practised in the art of recovering from those moments of inner insecurity that beset all politicians. He was no philosopher king troubled by deep
thoughts; instead, he had built his career on the basis of being a masterful presenter. In politics, he had found, there were always others to tell him and the rest of the world what should be
done, but it took a man with the skills of stage management and media manipulation to make those things happen. His politics were, above all else, practical, always capable of compromise, and with
a theatrical wave of his hand and a tremble in his voice he could put himself across as a man who cared, and cared enough to do whatever was necessary. It had saved him a dozen times when the
ideologues would have preferred him to head straight for the cliff, and now those abilities were needed more than ever. He wanted to save his career, of course, but most of all he wanted to save
his son. He knew what he had to do. He smoothed the wayward strands of hair at his temples and rose slowly in his seat.

‘Enough. We must put an end to it. It’s clear to me what we should do.’ He turned to Masood. ‘May I?’ He indicated the field telephone, a solid military-style piece
of apparatus the size of a house brick.

Masood considered, then nodded, but took close position as the Prime Minister raised the receiver.

‘This is John Eaton,’ he announced. ‘Would you please put me through to the Home Secretary . . .’ He waited for several seconds while the connection was made; his eyes
strayed to his son, who gazed up at him in hope. Then he was through.

‘Home Secretary,’ he began – he used the title, not her name, he needed this to be formal – ‘the situation here is untenable. There must be no more deaths, no more
suffering.’ He closed his eyes, a father at prayer. ‘I am instructing you to make arrangements for the immediate release of Daud Gul. You will report back to me as soon as these
arrangements have been made. And you will also make provision for transportation to take his followers here wherever they wish to go in the world. They will leave unharmed. Is that
clear?’

Rustles of overwhelming relief began to snake their way along the benches around him; a peeress began to sob quietly with relief. Masood stiffened in expectation. Eaton lifted his head, as
though addressing a vast arena, as indeed, beyond the walls, he was. Above him, the last of the evening light was catching on the stained glass in the windows, and seeming to dance in delight.
Eaton knew he could put this all behind him, the people would understand. What was one life in exchange for so many, some miserable foreigner traded for the restoration of civilisation and order as
the British had known it for a thousand years? God, he so desperately needed a drink, his hand was shaking even as it held the phone, but it wouldn’t be long now. He ran his fingers through
his hair once more, knowing the eyes of the country – perhaps the entire world, by this stage – were upon him. Some would carp at what he was doing, of course, narrow-minded
fundamentalists, the English ayatollahs who would want to flay him for allowing one wild mountain man to run rings round the entire Establishment and damn him for being the officer on watch when it
happened, but most would heave a sigh of relief and praise him for his common sense. He had given them back the day, and tomorrow would take care of itself. He glanced across at Magnus once more
and allowed himself a smile. His son returned the smile, and nodded in appreciation.

Yet, as Eaton listened, a change came over him. Slowly his face began to melt, as wax does when it is held too near the flame. He didn’t move, not a muscle, yet at the same time his entire
body appeared to shrink.

Without a further word, he tried to replace the receiver, but couldn’t, his hand was shaking too much. His young captor took it from him. Eaton stood staring at his son. His lips moved,
but for a while he made no sound. When eventually the words came, they sounded raw, as though each one had been torn from his throat.

‘She won’t do it!’

‘Why?’ his son mouthed, bewildered.

‘Because of the damned protocol . . .’

It had been thirty years since terrorists had hauled Aldo Moro from his car on the streets of Rome. He was one of the most significant men in Italy, a politician who had been
Prime Minister five times and who could expect still more. And now he was a captive. What happened in the ensuing days and weeks rewrote many of the rules for dealing with terrorists, not simply in
Rome but across Europe.

The terrorists were members of the notorious Red Brigades, a Marxist-Leninist revolutionary group who insisted they would release Moro only in return for their own leaders who were languishing
in gaol. During the course of the next weeks, Moro made several public pleas for his life. He wrote letters to the government that not only begged them to meet the terrorists’ terms but which
also heaped vicious criticism on the government and its actions in combating terrorism. The government refused to listen. They said the letters were written under duress and didn’t represent
Moro’s true views, that in any event the government were committed to the principle that they would never negotiate with terrorists, for to do so would be to open the doorways to hell. Even
the Pope joined the argument, pleading for Moro’s life and offering to take his place as a hostage. But it was to no avail. Fifty-five days after he was taken, Moro was found in the boot of a
car. He had been shot in the head.

There was, inevitably, an outpouring of sympathy amongst the public across Europe for Moro and his family, but amongst many governments the reaction was starkly different. They had watched Moro
trying to blackmail his government into denying their principles and ripping up their policy on how to deal with terrorism. To have succumbed to such demands would have been moral suicide, so they
said; catch one minister and an entire country might be held to ransom. Where would it end?

It was a precedent that bothered many, and the British Government decided to launch a pre-emptive strike. Deep within Whitehall, a secret ordinance was drawn up that forbade governments to obey
any messages or instructions from ministers held under threat. This self-denying ordinance was never put before parliament or made public but nevertheless it became a central part of the code of
governance, and gave ministers not only the excuse but also the duty to take a firm stand. From that point on successive governments committed themselves to the policy that they would never –
must
never, as a matter of fundamental principle – negotiate with terrorists. It was like a blood oath. And it was called the Moro Protocol.

It had lain gathering dust in the drawer for a generation. And it was all that Tricia Willcocks needed to refuse her Prime Minister’s instructions.

5.07 p.m.

Eaton was a manipulator of words, a man of mirrors who could reverse images as quickly as he could a car. It had kept him from digging deep inside himself about most things
– his beliefs, his emotions, those inescapable sticking points. He had found himself able to dance around most obstacles and, like a Pied Piper, lead the unsuspecting off in an entirely
different direction, yet now it wasn’t working. He could no longer skim over the surface of things, he was forced to dig deep within himself, and he found himself lacking. As he confronted
himself, his entire being shook. He lost control of his muscles. He sank slowly to his knees, struggling for breath, as Masood towered above him.

‘It is what I expected,’ the young man said in a calm voice. ‘It is what you would have done, I think, in the same circumstances.’