Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(74)

‘Until,’ said Holbrooke, ‘a suicide bomber who has something considerably more lethal than a sandwich in his backpack blows them to kingdom come, which will then define the Proms for the next hundred years. With that in mind, I’ve already put out an all-ports alert, and advised MI5 and MI6 to keep a particular lookout for any recent arrivals from Libya, and to keep an even closer eye on known sleeper cells. SO13 are reviewing anyone of Middle Eastern origin who’s on the security services watchlist, while GCHQ are also stepping up their surveillance. What more can you tell me about the Albert Hall? For starters, how many seats does it have?’

‘Nearly five and a half thousand,’ said Jackie, ‘spread over five levels.’

‘Entrances and exits?’

‘Twelve,’ said Paul. ‘But number one is only ever used if a member of the Royal Family is attending a performance.’

‘We’re going to need every one of those doors covered on the night,’ said Holbrooke, ‘and however much it annoys the promenaders, their backpacks will have to be searched before they enter the auditorium. I will also have over a hundred high-vis Counter Terrorism officers circulating the perimeter of the building from first light, and nearly as many in plainclothes. If anyone approaching the venue is wearing a backpack and looks even vaguely suspicious, they’ll be stopped and searched, and, if necessary, detained for questioning. They can complain later.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to cancel the concert?’ suggested Jackie.

‘That would only provide the terrorists with the oxygen of publicity, to quote Margaret Thatcher. And where would it end? Wimbledon, the Chelsea Flower Show, the FA Cup final? Never forget, we are like goalkeepers, we can make a hundred brilliant saves, but the only shot people remember is the one that gets past us. It’s our job to protect the public without them ever finding out what we’re up to.’

‘Is it possible that Faulkner’s setting us up, and this is no more than an elaborate revenge plot to keep us well occupied before his trial?’ asked the Hawk, playing devil’s advocate.

‘Possible, but unlikely,’ replied Holbrooke. ‘But if he is, I’ll lock him up in a place no one knows about, and throw away the key, because he’s taking up far too much of my valuable time and resources when I should be concentrating on the IRA.’

‘How do you make the decision—’ began Paul.

‘Over a hundred cases cross my desk every week,’ said Holbrooke. ‘Most can be dismissed out of hand, like the letter we received from a woman in Surbiton informing me that the Queen will be coming to tea on Friday, and asking when I would be sending in the sniffer dogs to check her house.’

‘How sad,’ said William. ‘How do you respond?’

‘That particular woman writes to me three or four times a year. Her husband, an ex-copper who won the Military Cross, was gassed in the Second World War, so she’s been a widow for fifty years. One of my retired officers who looks like the Duke of Edinburgh has tea with her once a year.’

They all burst out laughing.

‘But this case is no laughing matter, and we’ve only got a couple of weeks before the conductor lifts his baton. So we must do everything in our power to stop a potential catastrophe. Don’t for one moment imagine any of you will be getting much sleep for the next fourteen days. You can start by cancelling any social engagements you may have,’ said Holbrooke, looking around the table, ‘unless it’s to attend your own funeral.’

? ? ?

Mr Rosen was as good as his word, and when Christina stepped into the arrivals hall at Schiphol airport she immediately spotted a man holding up a card with ‘FAULKNER’ printed on it.

She sat in the back of a BMW going over her script one more time, not even noticing as she was driven across a wide canal with colourful barges passing below her. A few minutes later, the car drew up outside a magnificent seventeenth-century townhouse. The driver leapt out and opened the back door.

Christina stepped onto a cobbled street, to be greeted by an elderly gentleman wearing a herringbone tweed three-piece suit with a crimson silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He was leaning heavily on an elegant briar walking stick with a silver handle. She was relieved she’d selected a conservative grey suit for the occasion, with a skirt that fell well below the knee.

‘Welcome to my home, Mrs Faulkner,’ said Rosen as he leant forward to kiss her hand. ‘I do hope you had an uneventful journey.’

‘I did, Mr Rosen,’ Christina replied. ‘And thank you for sending your driver.’

Her host walked so slowly that Christina had plenty of time to admire the fine antique furniture and a cabinet of Meissen porcelain that suggested faded, inherited wealth. Rosen stood aside to allow her to enter the drawing room, where a tray of coffee and a plate of stroopwafels had been laid out on a small oval table.

Rosen waited for her to sit down before he settled in a well-worn high-backed leather chair. He had placed her so the first thing she would see once she’d sat down was a small, exquisite portrait of Henry VIII hanging on the wall directly opposite her. Not to her taste, but she wasn’t in any doubt that Miles would covet it.

Christina half listened to the old man as he reminisced about visiting London just after the war, while a maid served them coffee. Sensing he might feel uneasy about discussing money with a stranger, she came to his rescue.