Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(26)

Ross had joined them when they’d checked HRH’s designated route in and out of the building, while at the same time considering if any alternative was available, should an emergency arise. He’d also requested a private room be put aside with a landline, in case HRH wanted to make a personal call, as well as a rest room for her use only.

Once everything had been covered to his satisfaction, he’d asked the manager if anyone had been sacked recently, someone who might have a grievance they’d want to air in public in the hope it would ruin their day. The last thing Ross double-checked was to confirm there would be an escape vehicle hovering at the rear of the building, with a doctor on board and a driver who enjoyed cutting corners, just in case they needed to leave sharpish.

A second advance team would have gone over everything again after Ross had left, and would have already arrived earlier that morning – not that you’d have noticed them keeping a jaundiced eye on anyone or anything that looked out of place, while a member of the public couldn’t have got past the front door without an invitation card, plus personal ID with an up-to-date photograph – which, Ross had been reliably informed, had once stopped Billy Connolly joining HRH for lunch.

And despite all the preparation, they still knew there was always the possibility that something might arise they hadn’t considered, which would mean standard procedure would be thrown out of the window. If that were to happen, Ross would be expected to make what the pros called a thinking-on-your-feet decision. It was a protection officer’s worst nightmare, because on that one decision alone, your whole career might be judged. Princess Anne’s PPO had made an instant decision when the royal car was attacked in the Mall by terrorists – but luckily for him, and for her, he got it right. He was awarded the George Cross, promoted and ended up being the Queen’s personal protection officer. But Ross was still hoping something like that would never occur on his watch.

As the car approached the Dorchester, Ross could see a large crowd had gathered on the pavement outside, keenly awaiting the arrival of the Princess. When they drew up at the ballroom entrance, Ross jumped out and opened the back door for his charge. As Diana stepped out she was greeted with cheers and popping flashbulbs.

Ross had been warned by his predecessor that the next few minutes, when she would stop and chat to members of the public, were always the most fraught for any protection officer. He scanned the crowd. Ninety-nine per cent of them would be harmless, but he was only interested in the other one per cent: someone who wasn’t waving or cheering; someone he recognized from the mugshots back at the Yard which were indelibly etched on his memory; someone hoping to make it onto tomorrow’s front pages. That handful of people who were classified as ‘fixated individuals’ – the fanatics, the deluded, or even a passionate republican who wanted to express their opinion to a captive audience.

The Princess was met on the pavement by Sir Magdi Yacoub, the eminent Professor of Cardiothoracic Surgery at Imperial College, whose work she’d supported for many years.

After welcoming the Princess, Sir Magdi guided her into the hotel, where a long line of carefully selected supporters and volunteers had been patiently waiting for the past half hour. Diana took her time chatting to each one of them as she progressed slowly down the line, finally to be presented with the obligatory bouquet of flowers by a young nurse. She accepted them with a gracious smile before handing them to her lady-in-waiting. She spent the next twenty minutes mingling with some of those who hadn’t been chosen to stand in line.

Ross continued to watch carefully for anyone who stepped into her path or clung on to her hand for a little too long. Despite having carried out a recce of the site earlier that morning, he knew he couldn’t afford to relax even for a second.

A gong sounded just before one o’clock. The toastmaster stepped forward and, with a booming voice worthy of a sergeant major, invited the guests to make their way through to the dining room as luncheon was about to be served.

The Princess hung back until everyone had left the room except Sir Magdi, who was waiting for the toastmaster to make a further announcement.

‘Please be upstanding for Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, accompanied by your chairman, Sir Magdi Yacoub.’

Four hundred guests rose and applauded the Princess all the way to the top table, and no one sat down until she had taken her place. Not for the first time Ross thought how difficult it must be not to allow such unbridled adoration to go to one’s head.

His eyes continued to move restlessly around the crowded room of chattering guests who couldn’t hide their excitement at being there. He was asked a couple of times if he’d like to sit down and have some lunch, but politely declined, preferring to remain in the wings, just a few steps away from his charge. He hoped he would never have to walk out onto the centre of the stage and play a leading role.

While Diana enjoyed her smoked salmon and chatted to her neighbours on the top table, Ross watched the waiters vigilantly. In Russia, they would be considered the biggest threat.

Once the last plate had been cleared away and coffee served, the speeches began with the chairman’s introduction about the charity’s work, before he welcomed the guest of honour. The toastmaster placed a small lectern on the table in front of the Princess, and her lady-in-waiting handed her the speech, which she’d seen for the first time that morning; just enough time to add one or two personal comments.