The Lords' Day (retail) (40 page)

There were other explosions. In the same breath as their colleagues were setting off the frame charges, the three SAS snipers hidden in the ventilation shafts and the television tower received
their authority to fire. Two of them immediately claimed their victims, including the sniper in the tower who had been holed up for almost twelve hours, but the third couldn’t get his shot
away. Sod’s law. At the crucial moment a hostage had stood up to ask permission for a toilet break, covering his line of fire. Only three down.

The fourth was Masood. He, of all people, proved too trusting. Even as he was talking enthusiastically about arrangements in faraway Peshawar, he had no means of knowing that the telephone
receiver he was using had a remotely activated explosive device concealed in the ear piece. It was only small, of necessity, but it blew a four-inch hole in the side of his skull. As Tibbetts later
said, the only pity was that he never knew what hit him.

Now the chamber was full of smoke and bewilderment, with the cries of the wounded hostages mingling with the explosion of flashbangs hurled by the SAS as they stormed the doors. These flashbangs
were stun grenades, designed to create a blinding light and enormous noise that incapacitated rather than killed, and it was in the midst of this maelstrom of confusion that the royal protection
officer, forewarned and well trained, got in his kill. The Pakistani high commissioner was standing right behind him and had been disorientated by the grenades. He was still rubbing his eyes,
trying to recover his senses, when the protection officer stretched across the leather bench and from a distance of less than a foot put a bullet in his brain.

Yet there were still three gunmen alive and armed. Even if they were temporarily blinded, with little idea of where they were, they could still release ninety rounds from their Kalashnikovs in
three seconds. In such crowded conditions, surrounded by hostages, the death toll could still be huge. Harry had known what to expect. Even unarmed and with a broken hand, that gave him a huge
advantage. As soon as Archie had disappeared inside the closet, Harry had dropped to the ground to shield himself from as much of the ensuing blast as possible. He also knew that he shouldn’t
look towards the doors when they were blown or he’d be blinded by the flashbangs, but the gunman nearest him, the one who had beaten him so badly, was not so wise. When Harry reached his
side, he was only just beginning to recover his sight, yet his weapon was being raised and readied to fire. Harry was behind him. He hooked his left arm under the other man’s throat, crying
with the pain as he hauled the gunman off his feet, twisting him round as he did so. With his good right arm, Harry knocked the weapon from his grasp. Now he was on top of him, the other man face
down, yet still stretching for his weapon that lay only inches beyond his fingers. Harry’s left arm was still round his throat. He put his knee in the back of the other man’s neck and
pulled back, savagely, as hard as his screaming hand would allow, until he heard a click. The body shook, then went limp.

Elsewhere in the chamber, matters did not go so smoothly. One of the two remaining gunmen had been momentarily lost within the fog of confusion and smoke. He managed to discharge half his
magazine before he was killed. One of his victims was the royal protection officer, standing over the body of the Pakistani high commissioner.

The final gunman was found crouching behind one of the red leather benches. As he saw the approaching SAS, he pushed his weapon away and cowered in submission. He was the last man to die, with
eleven bullets in his head.

Yet success exacts its price. Seven hostages died. Two were shot by the same gun that caught the protection officer, while the Italian ambassador was killed when he was struck by the flying door
of the closet, blown from its hinges. One elderly peer succumbed to a heart attack and another was hit by a splinter of wood that turned to shrapnel. There was Archie, too, of course. And Celia.
She and the Queen had been closest to the source of the main explosion, and while the Queen’s body had been protected from much of the blast by the steps that led to the throne, Celia had no
such cover. She shielded her monarch from the cascading debris, but her own body was completely exposed. The sparrow would fly no more. Celia Blessing and Archie Wakefield died together.

12.53 p.m.

E
LIZABETH WAS MOTIONLESS WHEN
the medical team reached her, yet she stirred as soon as they had removed the body of
Baroness Blessing that was lying against her. She had been too embarrassed to move while her friend could not, and even a little ashamed that she had survived. The helpers brushed the dust and
debris from her face and checked her vital signs, then sat her up and brought to her side both a wheelchair and a medical trolley.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, rebuking them and rising with as much dignity as possible to her feet, allowing them to provide no more assistance than a supporting hand.

‘We must get you straight out, Ma’am,’ they insisted. ‘There might be another bomb. We need to secure the area.’

‘A little late for that, aren’t you?’ she suggested, dismissing them.

It was Charles who had taken the heavier knock. He had been thrown from his throne and tumbled down the steps, striking his head and badly twisting his ankle, yet it might have been far worse. A
chunk of wooden shrapnel had pierced the heart of his mother’s throne, which sagged wretchedly to one side. Elizabeth stared at it, reflecting on what might have been. They implored her once
more to clear the scene but she continued to ignore them, insisting on walking through the chamber with her son, calming the other hostages and giving what comfort she could to the injured. When,
at last, they came back to the spot where the body of Celia Blessing lay, they stood awhile in silent prayer, alongside the archbishop. Only then did they prepare to leave, yet still they insisted
on doing things in their own manner. They would not go quietly, through some rear door – sneaking out like thieves, as Charles put it.

‘Are there cameras outside?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid so, yes, sir,’ one of the armed officers replied.

‘Good,’ he muttered. ‘Let the buggers see us walking out. Let the whole bloody world see us!’

And even though he was limping he offered his mother the support of his arm. ‘Go out as we came in, eh, Mama?’

But she wouldn’t depart. ‘Not until I am properly dressed.’

He bowed his head in understanding. With as much dignity as his crooked leg would allow, he hobbled back up the steps to the foot of the throne. The imperial crown was there, covered in filth
and with one of the supports looking decidedly sickly after a direct hit from a piece of flying rubble, but otherwise it appeared intact. He knelt and with a handkerchief brushed away as much of
the dirt as he could. Then, stiffly and with extreme care, he carried the crown down the steps to where his mother was now sitting.

‘I fear it’s not looking its best,’ he said.

‘It looks rather special to me,’ she replied. She inclined her head gently, and he fixed the crown back on. Only then would she agree to leave.

Waiting for them at the Sovereign’s Entrance was one of the State cars, a specially constructed Bentley that carried no registration plates. With considerable tenderness the prince helped
his mother into the rear seat, ensuring that her crown remained firmly in place and came to no further harm, before claiming his own seat at her side.

‘We’ll have to return to the palace along Birdcage Walk, Ma’am,’ the accompanying protection officer explained. ‘Can’t get anywhere near Trafalgar Square.
There’s a huge crowd gathered; half the country seems to be there.’

‘But I think we should let them see us,’ she said.

‘Security, I’m afraid, Ma’am.’

‘Security? From our own people? As long as we’ve paid the Congestion Charge, I rather think we can risk it, don’t you?’ The sweetness of her tone implied the swiftest
lash. Abashed, the protection officer began muttering into his radio.

They pulled slowly away from the Sovereign’s Entrance. As they did so they passed a troop of American soldiers. They were a motley collection with a variety of uniforms, some even had
moustaches and straggly hair, but no American troops had ever stood more rigidly to attention or presented their arms with more pride. Above their heads, the Stars and Stripes caught the breeze and
gently unfurled. Topolski was still saluting long after the car had passed from view.

1.14 p.m.

As rapidly as their condition allowed, others were being led from the Lords. Once they had recovered their wits they began to congratulate each other and to express thanks for
the support they had found in each other’s company.

‘I think we should all leave together,’ one member of the Cabinet suggested.

‘I will leave with my son,’ John Eaton replied awkwardly.

No one argued with him; indeed, he had noticed that the expressions of relief and joy they had been sharing had not extended to him. A wall had risen between them. He knew why.

He said nothing to Magnus, couldn’t find the words, simply placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing as though to reassure himself that it was real and not a trick of his
imagination. William-Henry walked alongside. Neither of the boys would take his eye.

As they made slow passage out through Pugin’s vast doors, their footsteps echoed forlorn and hollow from the tiled floor. ‘We got out, Dad. That’s the main thing, isn’t
it?’ Magnus said.

‘Of course.’

‘The
only
thing.’

‘Not quite,’ his father whispered. ‘I died in there, too.’

‘No!’

‘My colleagues will already be planning the details of my burial, editors polishing the casket. Everyone will be so wise after the battle is over.’

Magnus stopped and at last turned to face him. He found tears of sorrow gathered around his father’s eyes, but also tears of relief. ‘What you did in there, Dad . . . you did it for
me. I know that. I appreciate that,’ he said, struggling to find the words they had never used. ‘I will never stop loving you for it.’

‘Then I have found the happiest of epitaphs.’

1.20 p.m.

The Super Hornet prepared for touchdown. At last Daud Gul could set aside the fear that had dogged him ever since he had climbed into this machine. He’d been blasted off
ships, been thrown about, flown thousands of miles, been refuelled in mid air high above the Indian Ocean, so high that he felt he could touch the stars, but now he would be landing on solid ground
– his ground. He had seen the mountains rushing beneath the wings. Almost there.

There was a jolt as the plane hit the concrete surface; it was a mild sensation compared to the shakings and battering he had received earlier in the flight. The tyres beat their path across the
seams in the runway, striking up a steady and hypnotic ‘kerthump, kerthump’. He closed his eyes, his lips forming a silent prayer of gratitude to those brothers and tribesmen who had
won him his freedom, and to his son most of all. He knew the risks they must have taken; he vowed they would not be in vain.

The plane came to a halt. Daud Gul opened his eyes, yet what he saw when he looked out from the cockpit surprised him. There was none of the expected bustle, no sign offering him welcome to
Peshawar, merely a line of military vehicles on either side that were swarming with American troops.

‘This is not Peshawar,’ he said, almost to himself.

The pilot’s voice crackled in his ears, as polite as ever. ‘No, Mr Gul, and it’s not even Pakistan. Peshawar’s a little under a hundred-and-fifty miles to your right. On
the other side of those mountains.’

‘So . . . where are we?’

‘Bagram. The main American airbase in Afghanistan.’

‘But . . .’

‘A little change of plan, Mr Gul. I’ll let those gentlemen with the rifles explain it all to you.’

1.25 p.m.

It took a little time for Harry to emerge from the chamber. He wasn’t in his best shape. He’d made a mess of his elbow during the fight and the face wound had opened
up once more. It took a while before the medics could staunch the bleeding. They’d wanted to take him off to hospital but Harry had refused, so they’d taken him back to the little post
office where his clothes were waiting and tried to clean him up. It wasn’t an easy job. It was while they were fussing over him that he saw Tibbetts hovering in the background.

‘Think you could do with some time off,’ the policeman said. ‘You look bloody awful.’

‘I won’t ask you to look at the other guy.’

‘You did good, Harry.’

‘We both did.’

‘If you’re up to it, I’d like to take you back for a short debrief. While everything’s fresh. I know it’s a lot to ask but—’

‘Later, Mike. Got a call to make first.’

‘Where, may I ask?’

‘Mel.’

‘Ah. Of course. I’m sorry. Should’ve realised. I’ll organise a car. And you’ll need some new clothes. I’ve got a fresh set waiting for you back at the office.
You’ll forgive a little official larceny on your wardrobe, I trust.’

‘There’s something I want in return, Mike.’

‘Name it.’

‘I want you to look into the family connections of everyone involved in the siege.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Harry said, wincing as the medic probed his swollen cheek. ‘It’s just that this whole affair’s been like a game of Happy Families.
Something’s nagging at me, at the back of my mind, and if ever I get rid of this headache . . .’

‘Harry, relax. It’s over.’

‘Is it?’

‘For you, yes.’

‘Please, Mike, just do it, will you?’

Harry gave him an obstinate, one-eyed stare and the policeman sighed. ‘You’re a stubborn sod. But, I suppose, just this once . . .’

‘Thanks.’

A few minutes later they were being driven back to New Scotland Yard.

‘Now there’s a sight to behold,’ the policeman muttered.

‘Where?’ asked Harry. His left eye was completely shut and much of the world was passing him by. He stretched his neck, causing him to wince with pain, and what he saw made him
grimace even more. Tricia Willcocks was on College Green, a strip of grass adjacent to the House of Lords much used by the media. She was standing before a vast array of cameras, television lights
and microphones, giving interviews. She was animated, gesticulating, pointing in the direction of the Lords then throwing her arms about as if embracing everyone who had been in it.