Next In Line

Chapter 35

It was still broad daylight when six officers and two dozen hand-picked ratings cast off from the Cornwall in six boats, an hour before the main party were due to depart. Captain Davenport had emphasized during his final briefing that although theirs was a secondary role, it was no less vital if Operation Overboard were to succeed.

An SBS party of fourteen would set off in their RIBs an hour later, and the last to leave would be Davenport and six of his most seasoned operatives in the two helicopters. They would have to time their departure to the minute if they were to take advantage of their most powerful weapon — surprise.

Three unmarked, identical cars stood in line outside the prison gates. Mansour Khalifah sat in the back of the second car. William was in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle. Beside him, Danny was waiting impatiently for the order to move. They had to be there in an hour and fifty-one minutes, when Chalabi would call the phone on Khalifah’s jet and expect it to be answered by his master.

Remembering Holbrooke’s words — ‘Your single purpose, Warwick, is to buy me time’ — William didn’t want to get there any earlier than necessary, but couldn’t risk being late.

‘What’s the longest it’s ever taken you to get to Heathrow?’ he asked Danny.

‘I once took an hour and a half, guv, but only because there was an accident on the motorway.’

‘Accident or no accident, if you can break that record, I’ll double your overtime.’

‘It’s getting close to rush hour,’ said Danny innocently, ‘so we’re bound to be held up. And I’ll let you into a little secret. The slowest lane out of London before you reach the motorway is always the centre lane, unless you’re approaching a roundabout, when it’s the outside lane.’

A man who normally thought nothing of taking corners at seventy, ignoring red lights or mounting a pavement during a chase, eased the gear lever into first and made his way into the centre lane. He slowed down as he approached the first traffic light and, when it turned amber, he gently touched the brakes. The black cortège made its way towards Heathrow at a funereal pace.

Three RIBs bobbed up and down in the water, waiting for the command to GO.

Davenport checked his watch once again, well aware that sending them off even a minute too early or too late could endanger the whole operation.

At last he slowly raised an arm in the air, as if he were a steward at the start of the university boat race. He waited until he had the attention of all three boat leaders before he brought it firmly down to indicate the off.

The three RIBs began to plough through the waves. The crews of two of them would attempt to board the yacht on the starboard side, seconds after the first helicopter appeared above its stern. The men on the third would have to wait, as they had the most demanding assignment of all, which was why they’d named their skipper ‘The Royal Gillie’.

When Danny finally reached the airport an hour and forty-two minutes later, he took his time locating Khalifah’s plane, despite it being surrounded by a dozen police cars, their lights flashing, with DS Adaja standing on the tarmac, clearly in command, which should have given him a clue.

Once they’d come to a halt, Khalifah remained in the back of his car until the door was opened for him. He stepped out onto the tarmac and said, ‘You couldn’t have taken much longer, Superintendent. For Lady Victoria’s sake, let’s hope Chalabi hasn’t already tried to get in touch with me.’

William knew he still had nine minutes left before Chalabi was due to call, and didn’t comment. He accompanied Khalifah across the runway to his waiting jet. He remained at the bottom of the steps while Khalifah entered the plane, feeling helpless as the door slammed in his face.

Khalifah sank into the large comfortable leather seat and checked his watch. They had used up almost every minute of their two hours.

‘When will we be taking off?’ he asked the stewardess as she poured him a glass of water.

‘They’re just finishing refuelling, sir, so it shouldn’t be too much longer,’ she said as the phone in his armrest began to ring.

The moment the three RIBs were out of sight, Captain Davenport turned and strode towards the helicopter deck, where the two pilots were carrying out their final checks before take-off. His men were pacing up and down like nervous boxers who, having put the gloves on, couldn’t wait to climb into the ring.

Davenport had already been informed that HMS Ursula was patrolling somewhere below the Lowlander, ready to release a torpedo and blow it out of the water if the mission failed. He tried not to think about it.

Davenport was the last man to climb aboard the lead helicopter, and would be the first out. Once he’d strapped himself into his seat, he waited for the second hand on his stopwatch to go twice more around the dial, before tapping the pilot firmly on the shoulder.

The rotor blades revolved faster and faster, until finally the first helicopter slowly lifted off the deck, producing a gush of wind and salt spray that had the maintenance staff shielding their eyes.

The second helicopter followed moments later, and although they would never be more than a hundred metres apart, once they reached the target area they would peel off and go their separate ways.

‘Ten minutes,’ said Davenport, breaking radio silence.

‘Can you make that eleven, sir?’ came back the response from the leader of the RIBs.

‘Wilco.’

As they approached the yacht, the sky grew darker, until the sun finally disappeared below the horizon.

If the phone on the jet wasn’t answered, Chalabi had already decided who would die first. If it was picked up and his leader confirmed that he was about to take off, and looking forward to a hero’s welcome in Tripoli, then all that was left for him to do was carry out the ‘end game’.

Hassan had been chosen to hack off an arm and a leg of the so-called protection officer before he was cast into the waves. She had promised Chalabi that the lady-in-waiting would live long enough to see her lover and join him in the water, so they could share their last few touching moments together. Hassan was looking forward to seeing which of them would drown first. Chalabi intended to make a video of their death throes, so he could enjoy pressing the replay button again and again. Once they were back in Libya, it would be repeated endlessly on Al Jamahiriya television, so the whole world could witness his achievement. A hero in his own country, a villain to the rest of the world. What more could a man ask for?

Khalifah picked up the phone on the fifty-ninth second of the fifty-ninth minute of the second hour, to hear the words, ‘Allah be praised.’

‘Allah be praised,’ repeated Khalifah, and put the phone down, feeling exhilarated but exhausted. Exhaustion won, and he fell into a deep sleep as the plane took off and the twinkling lights of Heathrow disappeared behind him.

‘Allah be praised,’ repeated Chalabi as he withdrew a pistol from his holster. He was about to give the order for Inspector Hogan to be brought up on deck so he could personally carry out the execution, when he was distracted by gunfire coming from above. He dropped the phone, fell to his knees and stared up into the sky to see a helicopter hovering above the stern of the yacht. When he looked back down he could see an armada of small boats heading towards them at speed.

Hassan’s men were returning fire, but Chalabi knew it could be only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed, leaving him with just one chance of saving his own skin. He turned his back on his colleagues and began crawling towards the spiral staircase that led down to the lower deck, only to see a second helicopter hovering above the yacht’s bow. A thick rope was now dangling from the second helicopter, and a man was fast-roping down towards the deck, another following close behind. Chalabi had reached the bottom of the staircase before Davenport hit the ground running.

The moment he heard the first shot ring out, Ross leapt across from one balcony to the other to join the Princess and Victoria. The SBS men on the first of the RIBs had already fixed a ladder to the yacht’s side and he and his men were clambering up onto the deck, almost as fast as their comrades in the helicopters were coming down, while the Cornwall’s diversionary force had reached the stern of the yacht. Ross knew the battle that followed would be over in minutes. But not for Jamil Chalabi, who was charging down the long corridor towards the royal suite.

As Chalabi burst through the door, Ross scooped the Princess in his arms, dashed out onto the balcony and threw her overboard. Within seconds, the third RIB was by her side and the Royal Gillie leant over and dragged her unceremoniously out of the water. Once he’d seen her clamber on board, Ross grabbed a pistol he’d secreted under the balcony railing before running back into the suite. He threw himself to the floor and fired three times at Chalabi, who didn’t move, making him an easy target. Instead of the explosion of gunfire Ross had anticipated, all he heard was three clicks. A self-satisfied smile appeared on Chalabi’s face.

‘You underestimated me once again, Detective Inspector,’ he said as he slowly raised his gun, looked him in the eyes and took aim. He was about to fire when a hand grabbed his ponytail, causing him to topple back and fire a shot into the ceiling.

He was recovering his balance when he felt something sharp pierce the side of his neck. A silver letter opener slit his throat from ear to ear with practised efficiency. He collapsed onto the floor, blood spurting from every vessel in his neck. Chalabi lay at Victoria’s feet, staring up at the lady-in-waiting.

‘You underestimated me,’ said Victoria, giving him a warm smile as he gasped his last breath.

Moments later, Captain Davenport burst into the cabin. He stared down at Chalabi’s lifeless body in disbelief before saying, ‘Did you do that, miss?’

‘Yes,’ said Victoria calmly as she took a tissue out of its box, wiped the silver letter opener clean, and placed it back on the table next to a pile of unopened letters.

‘Have you ever considered joining the SBS?’ Davenport asked.

‘Certainly not. The Girl Guides were quite enough.’

The stewardess let him sleep for an hour before she woke him. ‘We’re just about to land, sir,’ she said. ‘I hope you had a comfortable flight.’

Mansour Khalifah didn’t comment, as his mind was on greater things.

She gently lowered his armrest and helped him on with his seatbelt. He sat motionless, deep in thought as he went over the speech he’d prepared during those long days in solitary confinement. He even practised a wave to the crowd as the plane touched down and bounced along the runway. He wondered if the Colonel himself might be waiting on the runway to greet him.

After the plane had come to a halt, the stewardess opened the cabin door and stood to one side. Khalifah rose from his seat, straightened his long white thawb, adjusted his keffiyeh, and began to walk slowly down the aisle.

The captain came out of the cockpit, saluted and said, ‘Welcome home, sir.’

A look of triumph appeared on Khalifah’s face as he stepped through the doorway to face the flashbulbs and the cheers of the waiting crowd. He raised a hand in acknowledgement — but there were no flashbulbs and no one was cheering. He looked down and it certainly wasn’t Colonel Gaddafi standing at the bottom of the steps waiting to greet him.

He quickly turned back towards the cabin, only for a high-heeled shoe to be planted firmly in the middle of his chest. Rebecca smiled as Khalifah toppled backwards down the steps and into the arms of the head of Royalty Protection.

Danny drove him back to Belmarsh in record time. The governor was waiting at the gates to welcome them.

Captain Davenport was disappointed that one of his men had been wounded during the skirmish — which was how he described the twelve-minute battle to the Prime Minister. Later that evening, the injury had been sustained by a young corporal who had been shot in the foot by a bullet that had inexplicably come from the deck below.

The eleven terrorists had already been buried at sea, as if the incident had never taken place. Victoria’s nanny would have advised her, had the subject ever arisen, ‘Least said, soonest mended.’

The Lowlander was all ‘shipshape and Bristol fashion’ by the time she sailed back to Mallorca, where Davenport handed the keys back to the charter company. Twenty men, who certainly hadn’t been on board when she sailed out of that picturesque bay a few days earlier, made their way back to London on separate flights, before taking the train to SBS headquarters at Poole, to prepare for their next skirmish.

Ross was helicoptered to HMS Cornwall at first light the following morning, only to be told when he arrived on board that the Princess and Lady Victoria were having breakfast in the officers’ mess with the captain.

When four bells rang out, the ship’s company assembled on deck in full dress uniform to welcome their royal visitor. The Princess spent the rest of the morning being shown around the carrier, while thanking the crew for the vital job they were doing for Queen and country. After lunch with the ship’s full complement of officers, she was helicoptered to Valetta, from where she would take a flight to Scotland.

The cheers and throwing of caps into the air that accompanied her departure rather suggested that this myth would become legend, as the SBS were nowhere to be seen, and HMS Cornwall wouldn’t be returning to Portsmouth for another couple of months.

Ross accompanied the Princess and Victoria on the flight to Balmoral, where his royal charge was due to attend the Highland Games the following day.

Ross was hoping to have a few moments alone with Victoria, but the opportunity didn’t arise, because royal protocol dictated that he slept in the bothy on the Balmoral estate, while she remained in the castle. Lying in bed on his own only reminded him how close he and Victoria had become, the only woman he’d taken any interest in since the death of his wife. Perhaps the time had come to tell her how he felt. He fell asleep.

The following morning, Victoria joined the Royal Family for breakfast in the dining room, while Ross went downstairs to the steward’s quarters where he enjoyed the same breakfast with the household staff.

As he sat down to a bowl of piping hot porridge sprinkled with salt and honey, he glanced at the headline in the Daily Telegraph before it was ironed by the butler and taken upstairs on a silver tray. ‘The Princess of Wales interrupts her holiday in Scotland to pay a surprise visit to HMS Cornwall.’

Victoria had once told him that Lord Deedes, a former editor of the Telegraph and a privy councillor, could always be relied on when offered a front page ‘exclusive’ for the paper’s first edition, confident it would make the second edition in every other paper, along with the grateful thanks of the royal household.

Only the Daily Mail stuck with its original banner headline reporting that its star royal photographer had mysteriously disappeared while on holiday in Mallorca. But as he wasn’t their photographer, no other paper bothered to follow up the story. The Palace already had the words ‘conspiracy theory’ ready in case it got out of hand.

Ross sat in the front seat of the Jaguar as the Princess and Victoria were driven to the Highland Games later that morning.

Once they’d arrived, he stood at the back of the royal box while Prince Charles and the Princess were driven around the track in an open Land Rover, returning the waves of an adoring crowd.

Ross enjoyed watching the Highland dancers as they performed the ‘Dashing White Sergeant’ reel, accompanied by the bagpipers of the band of the Scots Guards. He marvelled at the strength of the huge, brawny brutes who were trying to toss the caber, and at the six rather more lithe athletes who took part in the hundred yards dash, as they came sprinting down the grass track; the winner reaching the tape in under ten seconds. From time to time, Victoria glanced back and gave him a warm smile.

Ross was delighted when during tea Victoria broke away from the royal party to join him at the back of the box. He was about to ask her when she would be returning to London when one of the guests, dressed in a smart Lovat jacket and a kilt of blue and green tartan, strolled across to join them.

Ross had checked the guest list and the accompanying photographs over breakfast, so he knew the gentleman was Sir Hamish McTaggart, chairman of Aberdeen Oil, one of Scotland’s largest energy companies.

‘Hamish,’ Victoria said as he joined them, ‘this is Inspector Ross Hogan, who’s the Princess’s personal protection officer.’

‘Good to meet you, Hogan,’ said McTaggart as they shook hands.

‘Hamish,’ said Victoria, linking arms with him, ‘is my fiancé.’

It was some time before Ross managed, ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said McTaggart. ‘Will you be spending the rest of the weekend with us?’

‘No, sir. I return to London this evening, when one of my Scottish colleagues will take over.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said McTaggart. ‘You’ll miss the highlight of the games. The tug of war between the Scots and a visiting team from England.’

‘I think I already know who’s won that battle,’ said the visitor from England.