‘I’m bound to say, Victoria, you seem remarkably calm, given the circumstances,’ though Ross noted a slight biting of the lip that rather expressed her true feelings.
‘My family have faced worst in the past. My great-great grandfather lost a leg at the siege of Mafeking,’ she said. ‘My grandfather was killed on the beaches of Dunkirk, while my father foolishly invested the family fortune in Lloyd’s of London and is now on what they describe as their “hardship list”, so I expect my inheritance has gone down the drain and I’ll end up having to do what the females of my clan have done so often in the past — marry for money. If you want to know the truth, I’m absolutely terrified. But as my grandmother used to tell my mother when the bombs were dropping on London, “Keep calm. Carry on, and always remember to put your knife and fork down between mouthfuls.”’
Ross could only admire the way this woman reacted under pressure, but didn’t tell her they had only experienced the first skirmish. Victoria went across to the desk in the corner of her cabin, on which there was a large pile of unopened letters addressed to the Princess. She picked up the top envelope and, using a silver letter opener, slit it open with practised efficiency.
‘From one of her many admirers?’ asked Ross.
‘Yes, but this is just a small sample of what HRH gets every day. One of my tasks is to see they’re all answered, even the ones that aren’t too flattering. I brought a batch of them with me, so I could answer them when I’ve got nothing better to do.’
‘How does she react to the unflattering ones?’
‘She never sees them,’ confessed Victoria. ‘I always pick a few from devoted fans for her to read over breakfast, although I don’t suppose I’ll get the chance today.’
‘Do you think the public would go on supporting her if it became known that she’d been on holiday with her lover and not the Prince?’
‘Most of them, yes,’ said Victoria. ‘For the worshippers, she can do no wrong.’
Ross swung around when the door burst open and two of Chalabi’s thugs charged into the room. They grabbed Ross by his arms, dragged him out into the corridor, and locked the door behind them. Alone in the cabin, Victoria burst into tears; her stiff upper lip having finally wobbled.
Ross was frogmarched up the stairs with the barrel of a rifle jabbed painfully in his back, before being shoved out onto the top deck, where Chalabi and Hassan were waiting for him. The morning sun blazed down on them, unaware they were no longer on holiday.
‘The time has come, Inspector Hogan, for us to move on to phase two of my plan.’
Ross suddenly realized why they hadn’t killed him.
‘Every telephone call you’ve made from your cabin during this voyage has been monitored, Inspector. So, for the moment, and I stress for the moment, you’re more use to me alive than dead. I want you to get in touch with Superintendent Warwick, as he appears to be the officer in charge of Royalty Protection.’ Ross said nothing. ‘You’re going to get him on the line right now, so I can spell out in detail what I expect in return for not killing the next Queen of England.’
Once again, they all stood when Mrs Thatcher entered the room.
‘Brigadier,’ said the Prime Minister, before she’d sat down.
‘An SBS team of highly trained operatives have been fully briefed on their mission, which has been given the operational code name “Overboard”, and are already on their way to the Mediterranean,’ said the Director of Special Forces. ‘I flew down to Poole following yesterday’s meeting and briefed the SBS with our latest information. We had an outline plan in place by the time I boarded the plane back to RAF Northolt just after midnight.’
‘But won’t it take days for even the most experienced operatives to be able to mount such a demanding operation?’ asked the Cabinet Secretary.
‘Not in fact, Sir Robin,’ said the brigadier. ‘The SBS spend every waking hour preparing for such a possibility, and can’t wait to be tested by real terrorists, rather than volunteers acting the part.’
‘But how can they possibly hope to board a fast-moving vessel, in the middle of an ocean, whose crew will be looking out for any sign of danger?’ asked the Prime Minister.
‘It depends on which direction they’re looking when our lads turn up,’ said the brigadier. ‘But you can be assured they’ve worked on several variations of this theme countless times and are more than ready for the challenge.’
‘Are you able to share any details with us at this point,’ asked the Defence Secretary, ‘or is it still too early?’
A map of the Mediterranean appeared on the screen at the far end of the room, with three large crosses marked in mid-ocean. The brigadier stood and walked across, a laser pointer in one hand.
‘This is what’s known in the trade as a three-pronged attack. To begin with, two dozen of HMS Cornwall’s most experienced men will mount a diversionary sortie from the east.’ A pinpoint of light focused on one of the crosses. ‘Once we’ve caught the terrorists’ attention, twenty members of the SBS team, under the command of Captain Mike Davenport, will close in on the yacht from the west, six of them on two of the Cornwall’s helicopters’ — the light settled briefly on a second cross — ‘from where the men will fast-rope down onto the deck and neutralize the terrorists. The remaining fourteen SBS men will approach from the north-west in three high-speed RIBs’ — the third cross was highlighted, completing a triangle that surrounded Lowlander. ‘The crucial element of the plan is timing. All three parts of the triangle have to come together at exactly the right moment. None of them can afford to be even a few seconds adrift.’
‘So where are the three parts of the triangle at this moment?’ asked the Cabinet Secretary.
‘Twenty-four of the ship’s company, who will form a diversionary group, are currently being briefed on the vital role they’ll play if this operation is to have any chance of success. The elite M Squadron should be’ — he checked his watch — ‘arriving at RAF Lyneham in the next thirty minutes in two trucks carrying all the equipment they’ll need, including the three RIBs. Once everything is loaded on board the two C-130s, they’ll take off at 1500 hours, earlier if possible. The SBS team should make contact with the Cornwall just after half past six in the evening, local time. I’d give you more details if I could, but the whole operation is very fluid and may well be subject to last-minute changes.’
‘How do you propose getting thirty men off a C-130 and onto the Cornwall?’ asked the Cabinet Secretary, looking at the map. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a runway within five hundred miles.’
‘They’ll parachute into the sea along with their RIBs,’ explained the brigadier. ‘For these men, that’s as easy as jumping into a swimming pool is for you or me. Meanwhile, one of our latest submarines, the Ursula, is closing in on the yacht. In fact, they should already have made radar contact with them by now,’ he added, a pinpoint of light indicating a position well to the south of the third corner of the triangle.
‘What role does a submarine play in this operation?’ asked the Foreign Secretary.
A long silence followed, before the Defence Secretary admitted, ‘It’s there as a last resort, Prime Minister.’
‘A last resort for what?’ demanded the PM.
‘Should we fail to take the yacht.’
‘And if that were to happen?’ pressed the Cabinet Secretary.
An even longer silence followed before the Defence Secretary admitted, ‘HMS Ursula would blow the yacht out of the water. But not before we’re certain they’ve killed the Princess and, even then, not without your authority, Prime Minister,’ he added as a phone began to ring from the far end of the table. William looked suitably embarrassed and was about to turn it off, when he saw whose name was flashing up on the screen.