The last things they went through were the three suitcases that had been left standing by the door in the hallway—a veritable treasure trove. Their contents only filled one bag, but contained more information than the other seven put together: diaries, names, telephone numbers, addresses, and confidential files that Pengelly had no doubt intended to take back to Moscow.
The unit then spent another hour double-checking, but came across little else of interest, but then they were pros, trained to get it right first time. Once the unit commander was convinced they could do no more, the six men made their way out of the back door and took separate well-rehearsed routes back to the depot, leaving only Number Four behind. But then he was not a litter collector, but a destroyer.
When the sergeant heard the back door close, he lit a cigarette and took a few drags before dropping the glowing stub onto the carpet next to the body. He then sprinkled the fuel from his lighter onto the dying embers and moments later a blue flame leapt up and set the carpet alight. He knew it would spread quickly throughout the small timbered cottage, but he needed to be certain so he didn’t leave until the smoke caused him to cough, when he walked quickly out of the room and headed for the back door. After he’d left the cottage he turned around and, satisfied the fire was out of control, began to jog back to base. He wouldn’t be calling the fire brigade.
All twelve men arrived back at barracks at different times, and only became a single unit again when they met in the Mess for a drink later that evening. The colonel joined them for dinner.
* * *
The cabinet secretary stood by the window of his office on the first floor and waited until he saw Giles Barrington leave No. 10 and set off purposefully along Downing Street toward Whitehall. He then returned to his desk, sat down and thought carefully about his next call, and how much he would reveal.
Harry Clifton was in the kitchen when the phone rang. He picked it up, and when he heard the words, “This is Number Ten, would you hold the line please,” he assumed it would be the prime minister for Emma. He couldn’t remember if she was at the hospital or chairing a meeting at Barrington House.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton, it’s Alan Redmayne. Is this a good time?”
Harry nearly laughed out loud. He was tempted to say, no, Sir Alan, it isn’t, I’m in the kitchen making myself a cup of tea, and can’t decide between one sugar lump or two, so perhaps you could call back later? But instead, he switched off the kettle. “Of course, Sir Alan, how can I help?”
“I wanted you to be the first to know that John Pengelly is no longer a problem, and although you’ve been kept in the dark, you should be aware that your fears about Karin Brandt were unfounded, although understandable. Pengelly was not her father, and for the past five years she has been one of our most trusted operatives. Now that Pengelly is no longer an issue, she will be on gardening leave, and we have no plans for her to return to work.”
Harry assumed “no longer an issue” was a euphemism for “Pengelly has been eliminated,” and even though there were several questions he would have liked to ask the cabinet secretary, he kept his counsel. He knew that a man who kept secrets even from the prime minister would be unlikely to answer them.
“Thank you, Sir Alan. Is there anything else I ought to know?”
“Yes, your brother-in-law has also just found out the truth about his wife, but Lord Barrington doesn’t know it was you who led us to Pengelly in the first place. Frankly, I’d prefer he never did.”
“But what do I say if he ever raises the subject?”
“No need to say anything. After all, he has no reason to suspect that you stumbled across the name Pengelly while you were in Moscow for a book conference, and I certainly haven’t enlightened him.”
“Thank you, Sir Alan. It was good of you to brief me.”
“Not at all. And by the way, Mr. Clifton, many congratulations. Well deserved.”
* * *
After Giles had left No. 10, he made his way quickly back to his home in Smith Square. He was relieved it was Markham’s day off, and once he’d opened the front door, he immediately went upstairs to the bedroom. He switched on the bedside light, drew the curtains, and pulled back the top sheet. Although it was only just after six o’clock, the street lamps in Smith Square were already ablaze.
He was halfway down the stairs when the front doorbell rang. He ran to open it and found a young man standing on the doorstep. Behind him was an unmarked black van, its back doors open. The man thrust out his hand. “I’m Dr. Weeden. I think you’re expecting us?”
“I am,” said Giles, as two men emerged from the back of the van and gently offloaded a stretcher.
“Follow me,” said Giles, leading them upstairs to the bedroom. The two orderlies lifted the unconscious woman off the stretcher and placed her on the bed. Giles pulled the blanket over his wife, as the stretcher bearers left without a word.
The doctor checked her pulse. “I’ve given her a sedative, so she’ll be asleep for a couple of hours. When she wakes she may well imagine for a moment that it was all a nightmare, but once she finds she’s in familiar surroundings she’ll quickly recover and recall exactly what happened. She’s bound to wonder how much you know, so you have a little time to think about that.”
“I already have,” said Giles, before accompanying Dr. Weeden downstairs and opening the front door. The two men shook hands a second time before the doctor climbed into the front of the black van without a backward glance. The anonymous vehicle drove slowly around Smith Square then turned right and joined the heavy evening traffic.
Once the van was out of sight, Giles closed the door and ran back upstairs. He pulled up a chair and sat down by his sleeping wife.
* * *
Giles must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew Karin was sitting up in bed and staring at him. He blinked, smiled, and took her in his arms.
“It’s all over, my darling. You’re safe now,” he said.
“I thought if you ever found out, you’d never forgive me,” she said, clinging onto him.
“There’s nothing to forgive. Let’s forget about the past and concentrate on the future.”
“But it’s important I tell you everything,” said Karin. “No more secrets.”
“Alan Redmayne has already fully briefed me,” said Giles, trying to reassure her.
“Not fully,” Karin said, releasing him. “Even he doesn’t know everything, and I can’t go on living a lie.” Giles looked at her anxiously. “The truth is, I used you to get out of Germany. Yes, I liked you, but once I was safely in England I intended to escape from both you and Pengelly and start a new life. And I would have, if I hadn’t fallen in love with you.” Giles took her hand. “But in order to keep you, I had to make sure Pengelly still believed I was working for him. It was Cynthia Forbes-Watson who came to my rescue.”
“Mine too,” said Giles. “But in my case I fell in love with you after the night we spent together in Berlin. It wasn’t my fault you took a little longer to realize just how lucky you were.” Karin burst out laughing and wrapped her arms around him. When she released him, Giles said, “I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.”
Only the British, thought Karin.
2
“WHAT TIME ARE WE commanded to attend Her Majesty’s pleasure?” asked Emma, with a grin, unwilling to admit how proud she was of her husband, and how much she was looking forward to the occasion. Unlike the board meeting she would be chairing later that week, which was rarely far from her mind.
“Any time between ten and eleven,” said Harry, checking his invitation card.
“Did you remember to book the car?”
“Yesterday afternoon. And I double-checked first thing this morning,” he added as the front doorbell rang.
“That will be Seb,” said Emma. She looked at her watch. “And he’s on time for a change.”
“I don’t think he was ever going to be late for this one,” Karin said.
Gile
s rose from his place at the breakfast table when Markham opened the door and stood aside to allow Jessica, Seb, and a heavily pregnant Samantha to join them.
“Have you lot had breakfast?” Giles asked, as he kissed Samantha on the cheek.
“Yes, thank you,” said Seb, as Jessica plonked herself down at the table, buttered a slice of toast, and grabbed the marmalade.
“Clearly not all of you,” said Harry, grinning at his granddaughter.
“How much time have I got?” asked Jessica between mouthfuls.
“Five minutes at the most,” said Emma firmly. “I don’t want to arrive at the palace any later than ten thirty, young lady.” Jessica buttered another piece of toast.
“Giles,” said Emma, turning to her brother, “it was kind of you to put us up for the night, and I’m only sorry you can’t join us.”
“Immediate family only is the rule,” said Giles, “and quite rightly, otherwise they’d need a football stadium to accommodate everyone who wanted to attend.”
There was a gentle tap on the front door.
“That will be our driver,” said Emma. Once again she checked that Harry’s silk tie was straight and removed a gray hair from his morning suit before saying, “Follow me.”
“Once a chairman, always a chairman,” whispered Giles, as he accompanied his brother-in-law to the front door. Seb and Samantha followed, with Jessica bringing up the rear, now munching her third piece of toast.
As Emma stepped out onto Smith Square, a chauffeur opened the back door of a black limousine. She ushered her flock inside before joining Harry and Jessica on the backseat. Samantha and Seb sat on the two tip-up seats facing them.
“Are you nervous, Grandpops?” asked Jessica, as the car moved off and joined the morning traffic.
“No,” said Harry. “Unless you’re planning to overthrow the state.”
“Don’t put ideas into her head,” said Sebastian as they drove past the House of Commons and into Parliament Square.
Even Jessica fell silent when the car drove through Admiralty Arch and Buckingham Palace came into sight. The chauffeur proceeded slowly up the Mall, driving around the statue of Queen Victoria before stopping outside the palace gates. He wound down his window and said to the young Guards officer, “Mr. Harry Clifton and family.”
The lieutenant smiled and ticked off a name on his clipboard. “Drive through the archway to your left and one of my colleagues will show you where to park.”
The driver followed his instructions and entered a large courtyard, where row upon row of cars were already parked.
“Please park next to the blue Ford on the far side,” said another officer, pointing across the yard, “then your party can make their way into the palace.”
When Harry stepped out of the car, Emma gave him one final check.
“I know you’re not going to believe this,” she whispered, “but your flies are undone.”
Harry turned bright red as he zipped himself up before they made their way up the steps and into the palace. Two liveried footmen in the gold and red uniform of the royal household stood rigidly to attention at the bottom of a wide, red-carpeted staircase. Harry and Emma slowly climbed the steps, trying to take everything in. When they reached the top, they were greeted by two more gentlemen of the royal household. Harry noticed that the rank rose every time they were stopped.
“Harry Clifton,” he said before he was asked.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said the senior of the two officers. “Would you be kind enough to accompany me? My colleague will conduct your family to the Throne Room.”
“Good luck,” whispered Emma, as Harry was led away.
The family climbed another staircase, not quite as wide, which led into a long gallery. Emma paused as she entered the high-ceilinged room and stared at the rows of closely hung paintings that she’d only seen before in art books. She turned to Samantha. “As we’re unlikely to be invited a second time, I suspect Jessica would like to learn more about the Royal Collection.”
“Me too,” said Sebastian.
“Many of the kings and queens of England,” began Samantha, “were art connoisseurs and collectors, so this is only a tiny selection from the Royal Collection, which is not actually owned by the monarch, but by the nation. You will notice that the focus of the picture gallery is on British artists from the early nineteenth century. A remarkable Turner of Venice hangs opposite an exquisite painting of Lincoln Cathedral by his old rival, Constable. But the gallery, as you can see, is dominated by a vast portrait of Charles II on horseback, painted by Van Dyck, who at the time was the court artist in residence.”
Jessica became so entranced she almost forgot why they were there. When they finally reached the Throne Room, Emma regretted not having set out earlier, as the first ten rows of chairs were already occupied. She walked quickly down the center aisle, grabbed a place on the end of the first available row, and waited for the family to join her. Once they were seated, Jessica began to study the room carefully.
Just over three hundred neat gold chairs were laid out in rows of sixteen, with a wide aisle separating them down the center. At the front of the room was a red carpeted step that swept up to a large empty throne that awaited its rightful occupant. The buzz of nervous chatter ceased at six minutes to eleven when a tall, elegant man in morning dress entered the room, came to a halt at the foot of the step, and turned to face the assembled gathering.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “and welcome to Buckingham Palace. Today’s investiture will begin in a few minutes’ time. Can I remind you not to take photographs, and please do not leave before the ceremony is over.” Without another word, he departed as discreetly as he had entered.
Jessica opened her bag and took out a small pad and a pencil. “He didn’t say anything about drawing, Grandma,” she whispered.
As eleven o’clock struck, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II entered the Throne Room, and all the guests rose. She took her place on the step in front of the throne but did not speak. A nod from a gentleman usher, and the first recipient of an honor entered from the other side of the room. For the next hour, men and women from around the United Kingdom and Commonwealth received honors from their monarch, who held a short conversation with every one of them before the usher nodded once again and the next recipient took their place.
Jessica’s pencil was poised and ready when Grandpops entered the room. As he walked toward the Queen, the gentleman usher placed a small stool in front of Her Majesty and then handed her a sword. Jessica’s pencil didn’t rest for even a moment, capturing the scene as Harry knelt down on one knee and bowed his head. The Queen touched the tip of the sword gently on his right shoulder, lifted it, then placed it on his left shoulder, before saying, “Arise, Sir Harry.”
* * *
“So what happened after you were marched off to the Tower?” demanded Jessica as they drove out of the palace and back down the Mall, to take Harry to his favorite restaurant a few hundred yards away for a celebration lunch.
“To begin with, we were all taken into an anteroom where a gentleman usher guided us through the ceremony. He was very polite, and suggested that when we met the Queen we should bow from the neck,” said Harry, giving a demonstration, “and not from the waist like a page boy. He told us we shouldn’t shake hands with her, should address her as Your Majesty, and should wait for her to begin the conversation. Under no circumstances were we to ask her any questions.”
“How boring,” said Jessica, “because there are lots of questions I’d like to ask her.”
“And when replying to any question she might ask,” said Harry, ignoring his granddaughter, “we should address her as ma’am, which rhymes with jam. Then once the audience is over, we should bow again.”
“From the neck,” said Jessica.
“And then take our leave.”
“But what would happen if you didn’t leave,” asked Jessica, “and began to ask her questions?”
/> “The gentleman usher assured us very politely that should we outstay our welcome, he had instructions to chop off our heads.” Everyone laughed except Jessica.
“I would refuse to bow or call her Your Majesty,” said Jessica firmly.
“Her Majesty is very tolerant of rebels,” said Sebastian, trying to guide the conversation back onto safer ground, “and accepts that the Americans have been out of control since 1776.”
“So what did she talk about?” asked Emma.
“She told me how much she enjoyed my novels, and asked if there would be another William Warwick this Christmas. Yes, ma’am, I replied, but you might not enjoy my next book, as I’m thinking of killing William off.”
“What did she think of that idea?” asked Sebastian.
“She reminded me what her great-great-grandmother Queen Victoria had said to Lewis Carroll after she’d read Alice in Wonderland. However, I assured her that my next book will not be a mathematical thesis on Euclid.”
“How did she respond?” asked Samantha.
“She smiled, to show the conversation had come to an end.”
“So if you’re going to kill off William Warwick, what will be the theme of your next book?” asked Sebastian, as the car pulled up outside the restaurant.
“I once promised your grandmother, Seb,” replied Harry, as he stepped out of the car, “that I would try to write a more substantial work that would, in her words, outlast any bestseller list and stand the test of time. I’m not getting any younger, so once I’ve completed my present contract, I intend to try and find out if I’m capable of living up to her expectations.”