Warlord

SEVEN

HIGHGROVE HOUSE, THE HOME PRINCE CHARLES acquired in 1980, had been purchased for him by the Duchy of Cornwall. This sudden real estate acquisition only added fuel to the nation's feverish speculation that the Prince of Wales was seriously considering marriage to the lovely swan Diana Spencer. The handsome prince and his blushing bride dominated the media in a riot of anticipation. It all seemed predestined, and yet…

Perhaps this truly was a union made in heaven, as an enthralled nation had already decided. And, besides. The eyes of the world were on Britain once again, which was only as it should be. Hearts swelled with pride and spirits were lifted as never before, or, at least since Elizabeth II's Coronation in 1953. For England, it was a godsend.

It was a fairy tale.

Highgrove Estate is today a working farm. It consists of rolling parkland fringed by thick forest. A number of farm buildings occupy around nine hundred acres of arable land. The beef herd at Highgrove consists of pedigree Aberdeen-Angus who share the permanent pasture with a flock of Masham and Mule sheep. The gardens, which Chief Inspector Congreve was so especially keen about, consisted of a wild garden, a formal garden, and a walled kitchen garden, all designed by the Prince of Wales.

His goal, Charles had said of the house, was this: "To feed the soil, warm the heart, delight the eye." He'd certainly achieved this and much more, Ambrose thought, eyes everywhere and filled with keen anticipation.

The house, built in 1798, was a classic three-story Regency manor house. Not spectacular by any stretch of the imagination. The rather plain exterior was enhanced by Charles, who had embellished it with a new balustrade, a new pediment, and classical pilasters designed by the Prince himself.

Alex Hawke rolled the Bentley under the porte cochere at the front entrance and got out to survey the damage to his beloved car. Extensive was an understatement. He ran his hand over the still-warm bonnet as if consoling a wounded comrade on the field of battle.

A Special Branch detective, a member of SO14, the Royalty Protection Squad at Scotland Yard, took one look at the severely damaged automobile and approached Hawke on the run.

"Sir! I heard about the attack on the road. Are you and the chief inspector all right?"

"Yes, quite. She's heavily armored, the old girl, thank God. Has MI5 been notified?"

"As it happens, sir, MI5's director of domestic intelligence was five miles behind you on the same road, en route to Highgrove. Sahira Karim. She's at the crime scene now with half the police in Gloucestershire en route as well. Apparently one unidentified man was found dead, the other five have escaped in one automobile, one other automobile burned at the scene. We've used your descriptions and the police are looking for them."

"You're on high alert here, Officer? I doubt there are more of these fellows in the area, but I would not discount it entirely."

"Of course, sir, we went to full alert as soon as we got the chief inspector's call from your car. Any idea at all who attacked you?"

"Yes. Someone who did not want Chief Inspector Congreve and me to arrive here at Highgrove alive."

Hawke turned away and went to help Congreve, who was having trouble opening his door. Hawke tugged at the mangled handle, kicked the door a couple of times, and managed to get it open.

Ambrose Congreve, understandably a bit shaky, climbed out of the battered but unbowed Locomotive in the shade of the porte cochere and gathered his wits about him. He was still alive, after all, and he'd been invited to spend the weekend with the Prince of Wales. He took a deep breath and looked around at the magnificent gardens.

Despite his brush with death and his recently rattled nerves, he still found this entire adventure too marvelous for words.

"Are you quite all right?" Hawke asked, a worried look on his face.

"Yes. But that was very unpleasant."

"More than unpleasant. Disturbing."

"What do you mean, Alex?"

"Whoever planned that attack knew we were meeting in secret at Highgrove today. A private affair with the Prince of Wales. There are two routes in and two roads out. The assassins clearly had advance knowledge of our route."

Congreve nodded his head in agreement. "Indicating they have contacts and allies inside our security forces. A leak. At the top, or somewhere very close to it."

"Not necessarily. Could have been a gardener or a horse groom on someone's payroll. It's happened before."

"True."

"And they didn't want us to attend this meeting. Isn't that interesting?"

"Very," Congreve said.

"Well, we're safely here, so let's just relax and enjoy a weekend in the country, shall we?"

"Couldn't agree more."

Ambrose had never considered himself as one so gauche as to be starstruck by the Royals, but he couldn't control the fluttering of his heart as a liveried servant took his bag and said, "This way, sir, His Royal Highness is expecting you in the Library. You'll find your belongings unpacked in your quarters on the third floor. A footman will show you the way."

Ambrose looked briefly at Hawke and said, under his breath, "HRH is expecting me. Did you hear him say that?"

"Of course he's expecting you, Constable. He invited us, remember? Do refrain from prostrating yourself at his feet, will you? He's a lovely chap, very bright and very down to earth, and, besides, fawning doesn't suit you at all."

"You can't deny it's still a bit thrilling."

"Oh, please, toddle on. Security will have alerted him to the attack en route. I'm sure he's worried about us. I suggest we not keep him waiting."

They were shown into the Library. The Prince of Wales was seated at his desk, a shock of white tulips in a sparkling vase of cut crystal at his elbow. With his head bowed over a ledger, an ink pen poised in his hand, he was obviously attending to estate business. When he looked up and saw Alex Hawke in the doorway, clearly unharmed, a grin lit up his face, cordially taking in Congreve as well.

"Your Royal Highness," Hawke said with a wide smile, "it was so good of you to invite us to Highgrove. A rare privilege. Exciting journey, as well."

"So I've been told."

Prince Charles put his pen down, pushed his chair back, and stood. Congreve had long known the two men were friendly, but the look on both their faces belied a much deeper, older relationship.

"Alex, this attack is shocking, to say the very least. I hardly know what to say."

"There really isn't too much one can say at this point, sir. Until we find out who was responsible. But let me assure you this is not the first time someone's pointed a loaded gun in my direction. As dear old Winston said, 'There is nothing quite so exhilarating as to be shot at without effect.'"

"Alex, your sangfroid is admirable, but you must understand that one frowns upon the attempted murder of invited houseguests."

Hawke smiled and said, "You're looking well, sir. Happy. Healthy. It's wonderful to see you again."

Charles, looking his old friend up and down, replied, "Well, rumors coming out of Bermuda to the contrary, I must say you, too, look the very picture of health."

"The miracle of St. Sunshine," Hawke said with a smile. "A good tan obscures many sins. Plus a diet so rigid I can't even lick a postage stamp."

The Prince smiled and turned his focus to Congreve.

"And you must be the legendary former Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard? England's own modern-day Sherlock Holmes, according to your friend Hawke. I'm delighted to have you here at Highgrove, alive and well."

"Your Highness," Congreve intoned, visibly stunned by the compliment, "I was deeply honored to be included."

"Well. We'll be getting a report on the incident from MI5 soon. It turns out one of the other invitees is the director of domestic intelligence at Five. She's at the scene now and should be here shortly. Do be seated, won't you?" Prince Charles said, coming around from behind his simple walnut desk. "Some refreshments after your journey? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Whatever you'd like."

"Tea! Lovely idea!" Congreve blurted out, the proper form of address not quite ready to trip off the end of his tongue. Charles smiled inwardly. Over the course of his very public life, he'd seen every possible kind of effect that he had on "normal" people. Some of it, like Congreve's, he found rather touching.

The Prince looked over at the footman standing by the door. "We'll have tea, please, William," he said.

"Your Highness," the fellow said, then bowed, retreated backward a few steps, and slipped more quickly than mercury through a door only slightly ajar.

The future King of England crossed the paneled, high-ceilinged, book-lined room and took a well-worn wingback chair by the hearth. A spindly table beside it supported a precariously leaning stack of books. Hawke and Congreve had settled into two occasional chairs facing the fireplace. The tea service arrived within a minute or two, astounding Congreve.

This place operated like a tightly run battleship, Ambrose saw, and he was somehow pleased by the observation. Despite the hoary view most people took of the Royals, doddering around in their palaces, ringing for servants, he'd seen nothing of the like here at Highgrove. It was a spirited, tightly run ship that felt, somehow, lean and mean.

Charles looked carefully at his old friend Hawke, sizing him up for the tasks at hand.

Alex certainly looked fit, well tanned, and, considering recent events, even relaxed, his legs crossed at the knee, looking for all the world like what he was-a man to the manner born-but hard inside, hard as local stone.

Chief Inspector Congreve was another story. A roundish chap, with rather flashy socks, thinning walnut-brown hair, and a well-tended moustache, his hands were shaking too badly to pick up a cup and have his tea poured, so Hawke did it for him. Whether it was from the horror of the recent incident or simply being in the presence of royalty, Charles could not discern.

Hawke poured himself a cup of steaming hot water, plain, no lemon, no sugar.

"A paragon of virtue these days," the Prince of Wales said, smiling. "Abstaining even from tea?"

"Well, I've some serious mending to do and I damn well intend to do it. No caffeine for a while."

Doesn't even drink tea anymore? Congreve thought, staring at the man he thought he knew better than anyone on earth. Clearly not.

Leaning forward in his chair, the Prince of Wales said, "Alex, I made sure you and Chief Inspector Congreve were first to arrive so I might go over a few things with you both privately. After I'm finished with my little spiel, perhaps the three of us will have time for a short stroll in the gardens. There've been a lot of changes since last you were here and I'm most anxious for you to see everything. Does that suit?"

"Certainly, sir," Hawke said, glancing at Congreve at this mention of gardens.

"An honor and a pleasure, Your Highness," Congreve said, giving Hawke a squirrely "I told you so" glance. "I'm an avid gardener myself so it will be a special treat to see what wonders you've created."

"I do love it so," Charles said, getting to his feet and strolling across the room to the tall French windows overlooking his gardens.

Hawke turned toward Prince Charles. "May I ask whom else you've invited, Your Highness?"

"Indeed. I kept it a small group, deliberately. You both know most of them. Head of MI5, Lord Malmsey. Sahira Karim, the woman who was just behind you on the road. Sir David Trulove of MI6, of course, and another chap from MI6. A most delightful Indian fellow who's on my board at the Prince's Trust, one of my oldest, most trusted friends. His name is Montague Thorne, not his real name of course. Monty was orphaned in the Indian partition and adopted at a very early age by Lady Thorne, my neighbor here in the country. He's an absolute fiend for gardening, out there digging away right now. Surely you know Montague, Alex?"

"Just enough to say hello in the lift. Brilliant mind, diligent, and highly regarded. Heir apparent to Sir David, so goes the gossip," Hawke said, and Charles nodded as if he knew that to be true.

"Ah, there's Monty now," Charles said, throwing open the wide double windows and leaning out into the sunshine to wave to his unseen friend below. "Alex, Ambrose, do come say hello to my dear friend, won't you?"

Hawke and Congreve rose and went to the window, standing to either side of the Prince of Wales. Below, on the gravel pathway, was a tall, good-looking man with a wheelbarrow full of plant cuttings. He had to be close to seventy, but he looked to be in his late fifties.

"Monty, please say hello to Alex Hawke and Ambrose Congreve, won't you? They've just arrived."

"Hullo up there!" Thorne called with a brilliant white smile, doffing his hat. "Welcome to Highgrove, gentlemen." He set down his heavy barrow and strode over so that he was standing just beneath the Library window, rubbing his rough, dirty hands together before placing them on his hips. He wore pleated vanilla trousers and a soaked-through white linen shirt, open at the neck. Removing a white bandanna he wore tied around his neck, he mopped his brow.

"You've been busy, I see, Monty," Charles said, smiling down at him. "Good work."

"Well, those privet hedges round the dahlia beds in the Sundial Garden needed a good trimming so I thought I'd start there."

"Dahlias?" Congreve exclaimed, like a man jolted by five thousand volts via live wire. "What species is Your Royal Highness growing?"

"Hybrids, mostly. Are you familiar with 'Aurora's Kiss'?"

"Indeed I am, sir! Why just last Spring at Chelsea I was…"

While Charles, Ambrose, and Thorne standing below chatted happily about gardening, a subject about which Hawke had zero interest, he took the opportunity to study Thorne, who was smiling up into the sun at the three men in the window.

Alex was naturally curious about the fellow who might one day well become his superior at MI6. Although he had, on more than one occasion, overheard Sir David Trulove refer to Monty as "that Thorne in my side," Hawke often wondered what barbs C might utter about him when he was out of earshot.

Thorne was a tall, well-built man, broad shouldered but with a trim waist. His cheeks were sharp planes beneath the eyes. One eye was covered with a black silk eye-patch. The patch, combined with the easy, flashing grin, gave Montague Thorne a rakish, almost piratical air. The actor Errol Flynn came to mind.

His clear, dark honey-toned skin was that of an outdoorsman, rich with a deep, healthy tan. He still had thick black hair, brushed straight back, going to salt and pepper at the temples and close cropped at the sides like a Prussian general. A long aquiline nose and thin lips gave him a somewhat predatory appearance. Hawke decided he liked the fellow on the spot, but why?

The easy smile, the lack of self-consciousness, the twinkle in the one dark brown eye. Both communicated bemusement with the follies of this world, but without the merest trace of self-satisfaction.

Hawke leaned out the window and called down, "Nice to finally meet the legendary Mr. Thorne."

"The honor is all mine, sir," Thorne said, sweeping the sweat-stained white plantation hat from his head and executing a deep bow. "The famous 'Warlord.' What a very great pleasure, indeed."

"Warlord?" Hawke said, baffled.

Thorne laughed. "No offense, Alex. It's what the wags in my section call you. The Warlord."

"I'm afraid I don't get the joke."

Thorne grinned and said, "Why, you're the 'lord,' Alex, the lord who's 'always off to war.'" He put his hands on his waist and threw his head back, laughter bubbling up from deep inside. Quite a jolly fellow, Hawke thought, for all his good looks and polished sophistication.

Smiling, Hawke said, "Ah, I see. I'll have to remember that title when I have new business cards engraved."

"Well, I'd best get cleaned up," Thorne said, "or I shall miss all the fireworks." He grabbed the wooden handles of his wheelbarrow and disappeared around a corner of the main house.

ONCE THE THREE MEN RETURNED to their seats, Charles picked up where he'd left off. "I mentioned the new director of domestic intelligence at MI5, Sahira Karim. Now at the crime scene. She is someone whom, I must say, I don't know anything about. Do either of you know her?"

"She's brilliant," Congreve said. "And apparently quite extraordinarily beautiful. Grew up in the slums of Delhi, family emigrated to England, took a first at Oxford in Far Eastern studies, and went on to take postgraduate degrees in physics and nuclear engineering. She was soon recruited by MI5, for obvious reasons."

"How much does this team know about the situation, Your Highness?" Hawke asked, changing the subject.

"Only that there appears to be a serious threat to the Royal Family, indeed, the Monarchy itself. They know I've asked for your help, Alex, and that of Chief Inspector Congreve. There's one thing I want to make perfectly clear from the outset. You are both working directly for the Crown. I don't want your investigations impeded in any way by Secret Service or HM government red tape. Is that understood?"

He looked at both of them, waiting for an answer.

"Completely, Your Majesty," Hawke said for both. He found himself in a difficult position. C would have his head for this if he found out. But Prince Charles would have Trulove's head if MI6 sacked Hawke.

"Any preliminary thoughts as to motive, Your Highness?" Congreve asked.

"Alex and I have discussed this at some length. It was either an IRA publicity stunt, the commonly accepted theory. Or this is a personal vendetta against my entire family. One that began over thirty years ago. The motive is revenge. The first to die was my godfather, dear Uncle Dickie, murdered as you know at his summer home near Sligo, Ireland. Here, please have a look at these."

He passed Hawke a slim red leather portfolio. It bore the heraldic badge of the Prince of Wales, three feathers emerging from a coronet bearing the motto "Ich Dien." German, Hawke knew, for "I serve."

Hawke carefully examined the death threats, then passed the folio to Congreve without comment.

"Ambrose, Prince Charles has already made me aware of these items. I'd like your unbiased reaction first if you don't mind."

Congreve examined the items and returned the portfolio to the Prince.

"Your Highness, you should know that I, personally, was part of the Yard's team investigating your godfather, Lord Mountbatten's, murder. The IRA claimed responsibility in a written statement just hours after the assassination. Two men were charged, but only one, McMahon as I remember, was found guilty and went to prison. Now, he's a free man. Your Highness, may I ask where you found the first handwritten note?"

"Yes. It fell from the pages of a book I was leafing through quite by accident. A book formerly in the library at Lord Mountbatten's castle in Mullaghmore. Uncle Dickie obviously received the threat and thought so little of it, he absentmindedly stuck it in the leaves of a book he was reading at the time and forgot all about it. Never even told his four-man security team, in all likelihood."

"And this recent threat against you and your two sons?" Ambrose continued. "'Pawn takes kings?' Where was that note found?"

"Here. I found it here at Highgrove. In this very room, believe it or not."

"Good Lord," Congreve said, astounded.

Hawke asked, "Where, precisely, did Your Highness find it?"

"Taped to the chessboard in that game table over by the window. It revolves, you see, chessboard on one side, checkerboard on the reverse. The boys and I still play checkers occasionally. The last time my wife and I sat down to play after supper, I flipped the board to chess-and there it was, taped to the board."

"The 'Pawn' leaves his calling card taped to a chessboard," Hawke mused to no one in particular.

Congreve said, "So the note was left by someone with direct access to this house. To this very room, in fact."

"That would appear to be the case, Chief Inspector. Troublesome, is it not?"

"Far beyond troublesome, Your Highness," Congreve said solemnly. "I assume your Special Branch detectives have interviewed every member of the household staff? Gardeners, farmers, gillies as well?"

"Of course. Nothing. They're all vetted to a fare-thee-well, naturally, or they would not be in service here."

"Sent by someone who sees himself as a pawn," Hawke said to no one in particular.

Charles stood and went over to the far window, gazing down into his garden, hands clasped behind his back, lost in thought.

Hawke leaned over and whispered to Congreve.

"Play your cards right and there might be a knighthood in this for you, Constable."

Ambrose, who registered exactly the kind of shocked, horrified expression Hawke had been hoping for, whispered a fierce retaliation.

"Your lack of propriety knows no bounds, Alex. You ought to be ashamed. Really."

"I'm simply saying, my dear Ambrose, that if you have charm, by all means ooze it."