‘But...’ began William.
‘There will be no buts, Superintendent. That is if you’re hoping to see the Princess alive again. As you now have only one hour and fifty-eight minutes, I won’t waste any more of your precious time.’
William had his next sentence prepared, only to find he’d already been cut off. Khalifah, who appeared to have made a remarkable recovery, gave him a condescending smile.
‘I won’t hold you up, dear boy,’ said Khalifah in an exaggerated public-school accent, ‘unless the governor wants to hang about and kiss my arse...’
The governor took a pace forward, but William threw out an arm, blocked his path and quietly led him out into the corridor, accompanied by a regal wave of the hand from Khalifah.
‘I’d be happy to serve a life sentence for killing that man,’ muttered the governor as the door slammed behind them.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ said William.
The governor paused for a moment before saying, ‘I owe you an apology, William, because I can’t begin to imagine what else you know, and can’t share with me,’ he said as the younger of the two doctors came out of the hospital wing and joined them in the corridor.
‘I told him I needed to take a leak,’ said the young doctor, ‘so this will have to be quick.’
‘I don’t think you know Dr Harrison, governor,’ said William. ‘We were on the same track team at London University, although he was a long-distance man.’
‘Where I studied Middle Eastern languages, not medicine,’ confessed Harrison as he shook hands with the governor. ‘So I’m a PhD, not an MD.’
‘What did Khalifah have to say for himself?’ asked William, not wanting to waste any more time.
‘I could only hear his side of the conversation,’ said Harrison, ‘but he made it clear that DI Hogan should be thrown overboard the moment his plane had taken off from Heathrow, and that once the yacht reaches Libyan territorial waters, someone called Victoria will suffer the same fate.’
‘And the Princess?’ asked William.
‘They have no intention of letting her go, even if Mansour Khalifah is released.’
‘Then what else do they have planned?’ asked the governor.
Harrison hesitated.
‘Get on with it, man,’ said the governor.
‘She’ll be paraded through the streets of Tripoli on the way to Martyrs’ Square, where she’ll be beheaded. They’ve even chosen the person who will carry out the execution.’
‘Nasreen Hassan, no doubt,’ said William as he checked his watch. ‘Which means I’ve now only got one hour and forty-nine minutes before...’
The C-130 carrying the elite SBS team flew over HMS Cornwall just after six thirty p.m., to be greeted by three flashes from a signal lamp. The pilot swung around and circled the vessel. The Cornwall’s captain watched from the bridge as the rear door of the C-130 slowly opened, and three rigid inflatable boats appeared and parachuted slowly down to the sea. The plane circled the Cornwall once again, before returning to discharge its remaining human cargo.
The first to make the jump was Captain Mike Davenport, not a man who liked bringing up the rear. Once his parachute had opened, the rest of his men followed in quick succession, dropping into the waves just as the brigadier had predicted, as easily as children jumping into a swimming pool.
The moment they hit the water, they discarded their parachutes and swam to the nearest boat. Once they had all clambered aboard they headed for the Cornwall.
Davenport nipped up the rope ladder that was hanging over the ship’s side. He stepped onto the deck to be greeted by an ensign before being escorted to the bridge, where the captain was waiting for him. They spent the next hour going over his plan in great detail, including the role those selected for the advance party would need to perform if the outcome was to be a success.
After the briefing, Davenport joined his men and ordered them to rest, not their favourite occupation. But as he reminded them, waiting is always the worst part of any mission, so they should try to get some sleep, as they couldn’t begin Operation ‘Overboard’ until the sun had disappeared below the horizon. He was well aware that none of them would have a moment’s sleep, himself included.
William phoned Holbrooke from the governor’s office, to be told he was at Number 10 briefing the Prime Minister with the news that the SBS team were now all aboard the Cornwall, waiting impatiently for the sun to set. Something even the Prime Minister had no control over.
William’s next call was put through to Holbrooke in the PM’s office, when he spelt out in great detail not only what Chalabi expected him to do, but also that Diana was definitely alive and well and, equally important, was on her balcony on the starboard side.
‘How can you be sure their cabins are on the starboard side?’ demanded Holbrooke.
‘There’s no way Lady Victoria would ever use the term “shit-scared”, even if she felt it.’ William went on to warn the Assistant Commissioner what Khalifah had in mind for the Princess when they reached Libya, even if they did go along with his demands. ‘He’ll be calling back in forty-one minutes,’ said William, checking his watch, ‘when he’ll be expecting me to confirm that Khalifah is on his way to Heathrow. If he isn’t, I’m in no doubt he’ll carry out his threat to kill Ross or Victoria, or both.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Holbrooke, ‘because, like us, he’ll be working to a strict timetable. I’ll tell you exactly what I want you to say when he phones back, but never forget that your first priority is to buy me as much time as possible. The SBS can’t make a move until after sunset, 20.43 local time, which isn’t’ — he checked his watch — ‘for another two hours and nineteen minutes.’
William listened carefully as Holbrooke spelt out in detail the message he expected him to deliver to Chalabi, because he knew he wasn’t a man who repeated himself.
‘The First Sea Lord’s on line one,’ said an urgent-sounding voice in the background.
‘I’ll be with him in a moment,’ said Holbrooke. ‘Your single purpose, Warwick, is to buy me time,’ were the last words William heard before the line went dead.
William made four separate calls during the next thirty minutes. The first was to the Hawk at the Yard, who assured him that three cars would be waiting outside the prison to take him and Khalifah to Heathrow, well before the hour was up. Almost as if command had changed hands. He next called Paul, followed by Rebecca and, finally, Danny, to brief them on the roles they would play during the next two hours.
He barely had enough time to get back to the hospital wing, making it with only minutes to spare. He hardly recognized Khalifah, who was now dressed in a thawb and keffiyeh, and looking more like an Arab potentate than someone who’d just emerged from solitary.
‘You’re only just in time to prevent the next execution,’ said Khalifah as William rushed into the room. ‘I presume you have a car on standby, because I know Chalabi is looking for any excuse to sacrifice Inspector Hogan, who for some inexplicable reason seems to irritate him.’
The phone rang. William didn’t need to ask who it was on the other end of the line.
‘I presume you’ve spoken to Holbrooke and arranged everything?’ was Chalabi’s opening statement.
‘Yes. A car will be outside the prison in a few minutes’ time ready to take Khalifah—’
‘His Excellency Mansour Khalifah,’ corrected Chalabi. ‘Yours isn’t the only royal family.’