Warlord

THIRTEEN

TWO SPECIAL BRANCH DETECTIVES WERE STATIONED on either side of the closed dining room doors. Officers of SO14, or the Royalty Protection Squad, were charged with providing high-level security for at least twenty members of the Royal Family. Two more were stationed outside, working in the shrubbery beneath the windows, disguised as gardeners. All were discreetly but heavily armed.

Security was always tight at Highgrove, but after what had happened to Lord Hawke this morning, Special Branch had gone to another level entirely. Nearly half the people on the estate at this moment were Special Branch, many of them disguised as farmers in the fields, gardeners, gillies, and horse trainers.

"I should like to begin this afternoon's meeting by once again welcoming everyone to Highgrove," Prince Charles began.

They were all comfortably seated at a round dining table in a large windowed bay. This was the small dining room that overlooked the kitchen gardens. Luncheon had been efficiently served and was being cleared. A few luncheon plates remained on the carved mahogany table, but they were quickly being replaced with pads and pens at each place, crystal pitchers full of iced water, tumblers for seven, and the red leather portfolio containing the two death threats discovered by the Prince of Wales.

Seated at a small desk located at a discreet distance behind the Prince was his private secretary, Sir Hugh Raleigh, a thin, balding fellow in a shapeless tweed jacket, quietly taking notes. Hawke watched him, realizing that this unremarkable amanuensis was in reality the true keeper of the gate. And, thus, the source of enormous power.

Conversation during luncheon had naturally consisted of events surrounding the ambush of Hawke and Congreve on the road earlier. Next to nil had been said about the topic that had brought them all together. The room went silent as the door was opened by a footman and a beautiful black-haired woman in a severely tailored pink Chanel suit appeared, striding purposefully toward the table.

"Sorry to be late, sir," she said with a shy smile and a little bob of a curtsy to the Prince of Wales.

Charles got to his feet and walked across the room to greet her.

"Sahira Karim," he said. "We're so glad you're here, Doctor Karim. Welcome to Highgrove."

She bowed her head slightly and said, "A great honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness."

"Come sit down and have a bite to eat. You're not too late and you must be starving. You know most everyone here, I assume. Have you met my dear friend Lord Hawke and Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve?"

"Lord Hawke and I are old friends," Sahira said, going over and shaking his hand. "But I've not had the pleasure of meeting the famous Chief Inspector Congreve. It's a great honor, sir," she said extending her hand and smiling warmly.

Without being asked, a liveried steward put a fresh place setting on the table for the new arrival. Hawke suddenly found himself seated next to Lord Malmsey's MI5 assistant, this youngish, extraordinarily attractive Indian woman who had been engaged to one of Hawke's closest friends.

Anthony Soames-Taylor had been at Fettes with Hawke and they'd shared a common love of shooting and foxhunting while at school and then later in life. Tony had been tragically killed in the terror holocaust at Heathrow the year prior and Hawke had not seen his fiancee since.

He'd forgotten what an extraordinarily good-looking woman she was. He'd always been slightly mesmerized by her lambent beauty.

"Miss Karim," Prince Charles said, "I wonder if you could update us on your findings at the scene of the ambush this morning?"

"Yes, sir. Five of the six attackers escaped in the Jaguar sedan. We've got police checkpoints on all roads leading out of Gloucestershire, but we imagine they've ditched their clothing and the original car and are now driving a stolen vehicle, possibly two. I think they may have slipped the noose, unfortunately, otherwise we'd almost certainly have them by now."

"Sorry to interrupt," Hawke said, "but you should reduce the number you're looking for from five to four. I shot one in the Jaguar during the chase."

"Dead?"

"Very."

"Thank you, makes our job a bit easier. On the other hand, there is some very good news. We managed to get the vehicle ident number off the burned Rover. We've already run it against MI5's national terror database. Belongs to a man named Sean Fahey, one of the assassins involved in the recent murder of the two British Army soldiers in Northern Ireland.

"We now know for certain that the attack on Lord Hawke and Chief Inspector Congreve was an IRA operation. We've no idea how they learned of this meeting, but clearly the attack was meant as a warning shot across our bow. We know who the attackers were, and our investigation is thus off to a flying start, I'm happy to report."

Hawke and Congreve looked at each other across the table. Hawke, astounded, mouthed the letters IRA? and Congreve nodded. If the IRA knew about this most secret of meetings, one had to wonder just how far up the political ladder this treachery went. Still, he reminded himself, there could easily be a horse groom or trainer here at Highgrove who was an IRA sympathizer and paid informant. Anything was possible at this point.

"Excellent, Sahira," Charles said. "Good work! Now please don't let good manners spoil good food. The lamb is marvelous, I think you'll find."

The table fell back into general conversation and, after Hawke whispered his thanks to the beautiful Indian MI5 officer, they began discussing the ambush in great detail. It was the first real conversation he'd had with an attractive woman in over a year, and he found himself oddly ill at ease.

"Alex," she said softly, "I've never thanked you for the incredibly kind phone call you made after Tony's death that night at Heathrow. Your funny stories and memories of your school days together touched me deeply."

"I'm still sorry for your loss, Sahira. One never gets over these things, I'm afraid."

She looked at him and placed her hand over his. "Alex, I never wrote to you after your own devastating loss. I couldn't find words to express my sympathy, I'm afraid. I do hope you'll forgive me someday."

Alex had no reply.

Always difficult, talking to a beautiful woman, to be sure, but he noticed her eyes still lingering on him, a few seconds too long, and it was disquieting. Luckily, the conversation was soon cut short.

Judging by the set of Prince Charles's jaw, Hawke knew they would clearly be getting down to business. Charles rose to his feet.

"Time to attend to matters at hand, I'm afraid. I would ask one thing. Please let's do keep this discussion informal. As of this moment we are all simply colleagues, not Royals and subjects. Consider me one of the team and do not hesitate to pose any question to me at all. I will do the same. Do we all agree?"

Everyone nodded heads, answering in the affirmative.

"Obviously," Charles continued, "my family have borne threats of greater magnitude before. In September 1940, a German Dornier bomber was moments from destroying Buckingham Palace. But RAF Fighter Command pilot Ray Holmes, whose Hurricane's eight guns had just run out of ammo, had other ideas.

"He deliberately rammed the German bomber in mid-air at 400 mph, taking off its tail section. Holmes parachuted to safety. The stricken Nazi bomber missed the palace entirely and slammed into the ground near Victoria Station with such force that it was embedded in the soil."

Charles paused a beat, looked around the table, and added, "My stalwart grandmother, who remained in London throughout the Blitz, was, needless to say, stirred, but not shaken."

There were polite chuckles and smiles all round and the Prince continued.

"However, I can assure you that my family find this present circumstance most unpleasant. The Queen herself is sanguine. I am not. I am convinced that these past and recent threats to the Monarchy are real. And that the IRA killers behind them are keen, determined, and fully capable of achieving their ends. Witness this morning's atrocity on the road to Tetbury. We are extraordinarily lucky to have Chief Inspector Congreve and Lord Alex Hawke here with us today."

There were quiet murmurs of approval around the table.

"The first question I have is for you, Chief Inspector Congreve. You were part of the on-site team that investigated Lord Mountbatten's murder in Ireland, were you not?"

"I was, sir."

"And were you satisfied with the outcome of that investigation? An IRA operation?"

"At the time, in the main, I would have to say yes, sir. We all were. However, subsequent events, the note you found in Lord Mountbatten's book, for instance, might lead me to rethink our conclusions."

Charles said, "The two men charged with the murder were both IRA Provisionals, of course."

"Yes, sir."

"But only one went to prison. McMahon. Odd, isn't it?"

"Thomas McMahon, yes, sir."

"And the other suspect?"

"The prosecution was unable to build a strong enough case against the second suspect, a man named McGirl, Your Highness."

Charles smiled at the inadvertent use of his title. He was accustomed to it. "But, still and all, your team were ultimately convinced that McMahon was guilty, am I correct, Chief Inspector Congreve?"

"I certainly was at the time, sir. My Irish colleague, Constable Drummond, had learned that McMahon had trained as a bomb maker in Libya. And there were traces of nitroglycerine on his clothing when he was arrested. His fingerprints were all over that bomb. Molded gelignite was his signature explosive."

"Still, Chief Inspector, I have examined the record carefully. It clearly shows McMahon was some seventy miles away when the bomb that killed Uncle Dickie exploded. It's certainly possible that a third party was involved?"

"Yes, sir. We were forced to conclude that the bomb was detonated by a remote radio-controlled device. Operated by someone other than McMahon, watching from the shore. Hidden in the woods above the bay, but able to visually confirm Lord Mountbatten's presence aboard Shadow V."

"In other words, it is entirely possible that the man who made the bomb was IRA, but the man who pushed the button was not even IRA?"

"Entirely possible, sir. But I must say with the evidence we had, no one doubted this was an IRA operation. The IRA claimed sole credit for the assassination within hours of the explosion. And that was the end of it."

"Sir David, your point of view?"

"I'd have to agree with your line of thought, sir. The death threat you found is reason enough to speculate that someone else, perhaps not even affiliated with the IRA, may have been involved in the murder. Sympathetic to their cause, perhaps, but not directly connected. A third party. Someone deeply aggrieved, and waging a personal vendetta against Mountbatten."

"So, a third suspect. Involved in the assassination, but perfectly willing to let IRA Provos take all the credit, Sir David?" Hawke asked his MI6 superior.

"Something like that, yes. Deflect suspicion in order to carry out a personal agenda."

"But, why? Why commit the murder of the century, at that point, and not take the credit?"

The Prince of Wales thought for a few moments and said, "Indeed, Alex. Someone with an altogether different, nonpolitical motive is a distinct possibility. Someone with an apolitical, deep-seated, personal grievance against Lord Mountbatten. A disgruntled employee, a stable groom, for instance. It happens all the time. Of course, all of this speculation certainly doesn't preclude the fact that the perpetrator was simply a third IRA conspirator."

"It certainly does not, sir," Congreve said quietly. "With all due respect, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

Charles said to Thorne, "Monty, you've made a private study of Uncle Dickie's murder. Your thoughts?"

Hawke looked over at Thorne. He'd arrived at the luncheon in a startling three-piece white suit, beautifully tailored, a sky blue silk tie, and a pair of shoes to make even Congreve seethe with envy. Traditional wingtips, but made of snow-white suede. In the grey world that was MI6, here was a strutting peacock of the first order.

Thorne gently cleared his throat, looking around the table until he was sure all eyes were upon him before speaking.

"I'm sure you're all aware that, despite his heinous crime, Mr. McMahon is today a free man, having been released in the Good Friday Agreement. Outrageous, but there you have it. And, shortly after his release, Prince Charles receives a second death threat with an identical signature to the Mountbatten threat. Mere coincidence? Perhaps. But, as Chief Inspector Congreve so eloquently put it, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.' Therefore, we are looking at him again, hard. It is my position that Thomas McMahon is the most plausible suspect in this new threat."

"Anyone know of Mr. McMahon's last known whereabouts?" Congreve asked.

"Last known address after prison was a council flat in Belfast," Thorne said.

"I think I might pop over and have a chat with his neighbors about his present whereabouts," Ambrose said. "Sooner rather than later."

"Good idea." Thorne leaned forward and said, "Look here, despite the fact that this case was closed over thirty years ago, I'm quite happy to discuss other possible suspects. But, I beg you, let's not dispute known facts. We know the motive, of course, do we not? Whoever penned the first death threat obviously blamed Mountbatten and the Royals personally for the horrific tragedy that befell his mother country."

"Ireland?" Sir David said. "Or perhaps India?"

Montague Thorne unsuccessfully suppressed a weary sigh. "Yes, of course, Ireland, Sir David. Split in two? Bled us white? Pawns in the game? This has been the quintessential Irish mantra for centuries. Still, the record clearly shows that no stone was left unturned in the investigation. MI6 looked at the Soviets for it, primarily the KGB. And also at the Libyans, where the bomber McMahon had trained. He was IRA, no doubt about it, and this was clearly an IRA operation."

Sir David, agitated, persisted with the line of questioning. "But why didn't the killer simply act alone? Suppose he wasn't even IRA? A lone killer with motives of his own? Certainly possible. Then why does he involve the IRA at all? Sympathy for the cause? Or simply to divert suspicion away from himself and his true motives?"

Hawke looked up, stroking his chin. "Possibly both, Sir David. But the murderer also needed a bomb, and Lord knows there were plenty being built around Belfast at the time. More bomb factories than pubs. Ideally, he would have to find a bomb maker reasonably nearby Mountbatten's residence in Northern Ireland."

Congreve said, "Precisely. Someone exactly like Tom McMahon, the resident IRA bomb expert of County Sligo. And, let it be said, a fellow who would have enormous incentive to lend the real murderer a hand. Possible, isn't it?"

"All quite possible, wouldn't you admit, Lord Malmsey," Hawke said, looking at the MI5 man whose responsibility it was to keep his eye on the restive immigrant populations of England and Northern Ireland.

Malmsey, flustered, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Of course anything is possible. I'm not at all sure where this line of thought is headed."

Hawke, smiling, said, "Lord Malmsey, a hypothetical question. Based upon the language contained in the first note Prince Charles discovered, our killer had an abiding, visceral, personal hatred of his victim, Mountbatten. Wouldn't you agree? And supposing, for the time being, perhaps, being less politically motivated than the IRA, this hypothetical murderer had far less need of taking credit for his death. Yes?"

"I suppose," Malmsey replied, unconvinced.

Hawke continued. "Then we come to the new threat His Royal Highness has received, carrying the identical signature. Surely you'll agree it would lead one to believe this personal vendetta is still ongoing, thirty years after the fact. Yes, or no?"

"Yes, I suppose it's possible."

"So, what is the current threat level aimed at the Royal Family? Any recent uptick we should all be aware of? And, if so, where is it coming from?"

"Uptick is putting it mildly," Lord Malmsey said.