Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(90)

Hassan was half-way down the spiral staircase that led to the guest quarters when Ross was woken by the shot. He was immediately alert, although for a moment he couldn’t be sure if it had just been part of his dream. He leapt out of bed, rushed across to the cabin door, and opened it, to be met by the barrel of a Kalashnikov rifle aimed between his eyes.

As two of the gunmen dragged Ross out into the corridor, he instinctively looked in the direction of the Princess’s cabin. The door opened, and out stepped Jamil Chalabi wearing a khaki uniform and carrying a gun. He leant forward and kissed Hassan on both cheeks before saying, ‘You couldn’t have done a more professional job, my sister. The cause will be forever in your debt.’

‘Can I kill him?’ she asked, looking at Ross.

‘No,’ said Chalabi firmly. ‘I have other plans for him.’ Hassan looked disappointed. ‘For now, we stick to our original plan. Start by searching all the cabins. Look for weapons of any kind – guns, knives and, equally important, phones. After that, lock them all up. Put those two in the same cabin,’ he said, nodding towards Ross and Victoria. ‘I’m going to need my own room and I have a feeling the Princess won’t be welcoming me back into her arms.’

‘What should we do with these four?’ Hassan asked, waving her weapon at the captain, the engineer, the steward and the chef, who’d been dragged out of their beds.

‘You can kill them,’ said Chalabi as if it were a compensation. ‘That way we won’t be outnumbered, and it will also make the Inspector think twice should he have any ideas about playing the hero.’

One of the thugs thrust a knee into Ross’s groin, who bent double before toppling backwards into Victoria’s cabin. The door slammed and he heard a key turn in the lock. Moments later, four shots rang out. Victoria instinctively clung onto Ross. She was trembling, but when she spoke, her voice was defiant.

‘I never trusted that man. Given half a chance, I’ll happily kill him.’ Ross hadn’t thought it possible he could still be surprised.

Chalabi left two of his men on guard in the corridor while he went back up on deck, where he found blood splattered everywhere. His favourite colour.

He was about to give the order to raise the anchor when he saw a flash coming from the beach. He grabbed a set of binoculars, and in the moonlight could just make out a lone figure holding a long-lens camera resting on a tripod.

‘Damn, I’d forgotten about him,’ said Chalabi. ‘But as he no longer serves any purpose …’ He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Hassan, who was standing by his side, raised her rifle, rested it on the ship’s railing and lined up her target through the nightscope. He was four hundred and fifty-eight yards away. She nestled the butt of the rifle firmly into her shoulder, and took a deep breath before gently squeezing the trigger. She was prepared to fire a second shot if there was any further sign of movement on the beach. There wasn’t.

‘Let’s get going,’ Chalabi shouted up to the bridge. He knew the Lowlander could only manage twenty knots flat out, so there wasn’t a moment to waste if they were going to make it to the safety of their homeland, where the world would learn about the daring coup, and be left with no choice but to agree to their demands.

? ? ?

The phone was ringing on William’s side of the bed. He grabbed it in the hope it wouldn’t wake Beth. She groaned and turned over.

‘Good morning, Warwick,’ said a voice he thought he’d heard the last of.

‘Good morning, Assistant Commissioner,’ he replied, hoping he sounded wide awake.

‘The body of a paparazzi photographer has been found by a local fisherman on an isolated beach off the coast of Mallorca.’

William’s mind raced, as he tried to work out why this could possibly be of any importance to him, at five o’clock in the morning.

‘The local police,’ continued Holbrooke, ‘found a camera by his side and have sent us the images he’d taken. That’s all you need to know for now, except that a COBRA meeting will be taking place in Whitehall in an hour’s time, and your presence is required.’

Why me, William wondered.

‘We think it’s possible Mansour Khalifah may be involved,’ came back the answer to his unspoken question.

Involved in what, William would have asked, if he hadn’t been cut off. He leapt out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

‘Who was that?’ asked a half-awake Beth, but he’d already closed the door.

? ? ?

Everyone stood as Mrs Thatcher entered the Cabinet Office Briefing Room just a corridor away from Number 10, with none of the usual prying eyes wondering why such a powerful group had been assembled at six o’clock in the morning.

She took her place at the centre of the long table and looked around at a score of the nation’s top decision-makers, who’d all emerged from their warm beds at a moment’s notice. Behind them sat a plethora of civil servants, who would ensure their masters’ orders were carried out when they returned to their Whitehall warrens once the meeting was over.

‘Assistant Commissioner,’ the Prime Minister began, looking across to the other side of the table, ‘perhaps you can bring us all up to date.’

‘The situation is frankly fluid, Prime Minister,’ replied Holbrooke, ‘while our intelligence agencies are continuing to gather the latest information, as I speak. All we know for certain is that an armed group of terrorists, possibly funded by Colonel Gaddafi, boarded and captured a yacht off the coast of Mallorca, on which the Princess of Wales is a guest. Its current whereabouts are unknown.’