Khalifah picked up the phone on the fifty-ninth second of the fifty-ninth minute of the second hour, to hear the words, ‘Allah be praised.’
‘Allah be praised,’ repeated Khalifah, and put the phone down, feeling exhilarated but exhausted. Exhaustion won, and he fell into a deep sleep as the plane took off and the twinkling lights of Heathrow disappeared behind him.
‘Allah be praised,’ repeated Chalabi as he withdrew a pistol from his holster. He was about to give the order for Inspector Hogan to be brought up on deck so he could personally carry out the execution, when he was distracted by gunfire coming from above. He dropped the phone, fell to his knees and stared up into the sky to see a helicopter hovering above the stern of the yacht. When he looked back down he could see an armada of small boats heading towards them at speed.
Hassan’s men were returning fire, but Chalabi knew it could be only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed, leaving him with just one chance of saving his own skin. He turned his back on his colleagues and began crawling towards the spiral staircase that led down to the lower deck, only to see a second helicopter hovering above the yacht’s bow. A thick rope was now dangling from the second helicopter, and a man was fast-roping down towards the deck, another following close behind. Chalabi had reached the bottom of the staircase before Davenport hit the ground running.
The moment he heard the first shot ring out, Ross leapt across from one balcony to the other to join the Princess and Victoria. The SBS men on the first of the RIBs had already fixed a ladder to the yacht’s side and he and his men were clambering up onto the deck, almost as fast as their comrades in the helicopters were coming down, while the Cornwall’s diversionary force had reached the stern of the yacht. Ross knew the battle that followed would be over in minutes. But not for Jamil Chalabi, who was charging down the long corridor towards the royal suite.
As Chalabi burst through the door, Ross scooped the Princess in his arms, dashed out onto the balcony and threw her overboard. Within seconds, the third RIB was by her side and the Royal Gillie leant over and dragged her unceremoniously out of the water. Once he’d seen her clamber on board, Ross grabbed a pistol he’d secreted under the balcony railing before running back into the suite. He threw himself to the floor and fired three times at Chalabi, who didn’t move, making him an easy target. Instead of the explosion of gunfire Ross had anticipated, all he heard was three clicks. A self-satisfied smile appeared on Chalabi’s face.
‘You underestimated me once again, Detective Inspector,’ he said as he slowly raised his gun, looked him in the eyes and took aim. He was about to fire when a hand grabbed his ponytail, causing him to topple back and fire a shot into the ceiling.
He was recovering his balance when he felt something sharp pierce the side of his neck. A silver letter opener slit his throat from ear to ear with practised efficiency. He collapsed onto the floor, blood spurting from every vessel in his neck. Chalabi lay at Victoria’s feet, staring up at the lady-in-waiting.
‘You underestimated me,’ said Victoria, giving him a warm smile as he gasped his last breath.
Moments later, Captain Davenport burst into the cabin. He stared down at Chalabi’s lifeless body in disbelief before saying, ‘Did you do that, miss?’
‘Yes,’ said Victoria calmly as she took a tissue out of its box, wiped the silver letter opener clean, and placed it back on the table next to a pile of unopened letters.
‘Have you ever considered joining the SBS?’ Davenport asked.
‘Certainly not. The Girl Guides were quite enough.’
The stewardess let him sleep for an hour before she woke him. ‘We’re just about to land, sir,’ she said. ‘I hope you had a comfortable flight.’
Mansour Khalifah didn’t comment, as his mind was on greater things.
She gently lowered his armrest and helped him on with his seatbelt. He sat motionless, deep in thought as he went over the speech he’d prepared during those long days in solitary confinement. He even practised a wave to the crowd as the plane touched down and bounced along the runway. He wondered if the Colonel himself might be waiting on the runway to greet him.
After the plane had come to a halt, the stewardess opened the cabin door and stood to one side. Khalifah rose from his seat, straightened his long white thawb, adjusted his keffiyeh, and began to walk slowly down the aisle.
The captain came out of the cockpit, saluted and said, ‘Welcome home, sir.’
A look of triumph appeared on Khalifah’s face as he stepped through the doorway to face the flashbulbs and the cheers of the waiting crowd. He raised a hand in acknowledgement — but there were no flashbulbs and no one was cheering. He looked down and it certainly wasn’t Colonel Gaddafi standing at the bottom of the steps waiting to greet him.
He quickly turned back towards the cabin, only for a high-heeled shoe to be planted firmly in the middle of his chest. Rebecca smiled as Khalifah toppled backwards down the steps and into the arms of the head of Royalty Protection.
Danny drove him back to Belmarsh in record time. The governor was waiting at the gates to welcome them.
Captain Davenport was disappointed that one of his men had been wounded during the skirmish — which was how he described the twelve-minute battle to the Prime Minister. Later that evening, the injury had been sustained by a young corporal who had been shot in the foot by a bullet that had inexplicably come from the deck below.
The eleven terrorists had already been buried at sea, as if the incident had never taken place. Victoria’s nanny would have advised her, had the subject ever arisen, ‘Least said, soonest mended.’
The Lowlander was all ‘shipshape and Bristol fashion’ by the time she sailed back to Mallorca, where Davenport handed the keys back to the charter company. Twenty men, who certainly hadn’t been on board when she sailed out of that picturesque bay a few days earlier, made their way back to London on separate flights, before taking the train to SBS headquarters at Poole, to prepare for their next skirmish.
Ross was helicoptered to HMS Cornwall at first light the following morning, only to be told when he arrived on board that the Princess and Lady Victoria were having breakfast in the officers’ mess with the captain.
When four bells rang out, the ship’s company assembled on deck in full dress uniform to welcome their royal visitor. The Princess spent the rest of the morning being shown around the carrier, while thanking the crew for the vital job they were doing for Queen and country. After lunch with the ship’s full complement of officers, she was helicoptered to Valetta, from where she would take a flight to Scotland.
The cheers and throwing of caps into the air that accompanied her departure rather suggested that this myth would become legend, as the SBS were nowhere to be seen, and HMS Cornwall wouldn’t be returning to Portsmouth for another couple of months.
Ross accompanied the Princess and Victoria on the flight to Balmoral, where his royal charge was due to attend the Highland Games the following day.
Ross was hoping to have a few moments alone with Victoria, but the opportunity didn’t arise, because royal protocol dictated that he slept in the bothy on the Balmoral estate, while she remained in the castle. Lying in bed on his own only reminded him how close he and Victoria had become, the only woman he’d taken any interest in since the death of his wife. Perhaps the time had come to tell her how he felt. He fell asleep.