His heart quickened as he saw faint light ahead, deep in the woods. He slowed his pace now. He was approaching a small two-story lodge from whence came the light in the forest. It was built of rough-hewn logs, beneath a lichen-covered slate roof; smoke was curling from stone chimneys at either end. It looked like any one of dozens of such cabins and lodges, built over the centuries on the estate.
But this particular structure was quite unlike all those others. This unlikely spot was the nerve center of Balmoral Security Operations, home of Balmoral's state-of-the-art PIDS: the Perimeter Intrusion Detection System. It was run by SO15, now officially called the Counter Terrorism Command. This was a recently merged version of the old Special Branch, established in 1883, and the much newer Anti-Terrorist Branch, both divisions of Scotland Yard.
Working closely with agents of Lord Malmsey, the director general of MI5, the detectives stationed here on the property were responsible for the safety and protection of Her Majesty the Queen and all members of the Royal Family in residence at Balmoral Castle for summer holiday.
And here in this cottage a four-man team worked round the clock. They manned a formidable surveillance operation that ensured that there were no breaches of the security perimeter protecting the Queen and her family. It was a full-time job and, to their credit, no one had ever penetrated their fail-safe systems.
Smith well knew Balmoral was the Queen's favorite place on earth. As had it been her mother's and grandmother's before her. It held a special place in Her Majesty's heart because here alone did she feel completely secure. At a safe remove from the world, she could jounce along the miles of rutted roads at the wheel of her battered Range Rover, left in peace to do as she wished, surrounded by her horses, her beloved Corgis, and of course her family. They had weathered many storms in the decade prior, but now at last it seemed tranquillity had settled in for good.
And Smith had long ago decided that it would be this haven, this paradise bequeathed to her by her ancestor Queen Victoria, where he would pay the Windsor family one final and terrible visit.
IN THE AUTUMN OF 1842, Queen Victoria, and her new husband, Prince Albert, paid their first visit to Scotland. They were so struck with the majestic beauty of the Highlands, they resolved to return again and again. For years, Victoria and Albert always depended on the kindness of friends who would graciously open their castles and estates to the enormously popular Royal couple.
Meanwhile, the Queen's physician, Sir James Clark, had recently been the guest of Sir Robert Gordon at his small castle, Balmoral, which lay to the east of the Grampian Mountains just beside the river Dee. Queen Victoria received many glowing reports from Sir James, not only about the magnificent scenery, but about the air, which he described as having 'an unusual dryness and purity.'
By 1848, Sir Robert Gordon had died, and the lease was for sale. Queen Victoria snapped it up, and so it was that in the autumn of that year, she and Prince Albert arrived to take possession of a property that they had never seen. They were not disappointed. In her diary that first evening, when the house was still all around her, the Queen described a 'pretty little castle in the old Scottish style, surrounded by beautiful wooded hills.'
'It is so calm and so solitary,' she wrote, 'it does one good as one gazes around; and the pure mountain air is most refreshing. All seems to breathe freedom and peace, and to make one forget the world and its sad turmoils. The scenery all around is the finest I have seen anywhere. You can walk forever and the wildness and solitariness of everything is so delightful, so refreshing. And the local people are so good and so kind and so simple.'
TODAY, THE QUEEN'S PRIVATE ESTATES, owned by the Crown, extend to just over fifty thousand acres, with sporting privileges leased on a further twelve thousand acres. The majority of the land is heather-clad hill-ground overlying granite. More fertile land lies along the south bank of the river Dee and is used for farming and forestry. The ground on the property is dramatic. It rises very steeply in parts, up to the top of the Lochnagar massif, which, at almost four thousand feet, dominates the entire area.
Every August and September, Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the Duke of Edinburgh, the Prince of Wales, his wife, and his two heirs, Wills and Harry, abandon London and take up residence for a peaceful month or so at Balmoral Castle. There the Royal Family are able to escape the glare of the public eye and enjoy walkabouts, shooting, stalking the great fourteen-point bucks that roamed the moors. There was also boating and fishing on Loch Muick, a name the Queen was said to dislike intensely because it meant 'pigs.'
Charles had awoken that bright morning with a fine sense of anticipation. His wife, the Duchess of Cornwall, known here in Scotland as the Duchess of Rothesay, was not present. She was in London with her own son Tom, Charles's godson, who had suddenly taken ill. But both of the Prince of Wales's boys were home on leave from the military; and all looked forward to a magnificent day out in the country air with close friends and family.
Today was a very special day, the historic Glorious Twelfth. The Twelfth of August, celebrated each year, marks the opening of the shooting season for red grouse throughout the United Kingdom. As Prince Charles had a number of friends who were keen shots, it was his habit to invite them to Balmoral for a day out on the moors, shooting the driven birds. Afterward they would celebrate with a great game feast that evening with all members of the Royal Family and their guests in attendance. Even now, the kitchen staff was putting final touches on the evening's grand banquet.
SMITH WAS ABOUT A HUNDRED FEET from the cottage when he suddenly staggered and clenched his chest in agony. Stricken, he put a hand out to brace himself against a tree. After only a few moments, he made his way with difficulty to the side entrance.
Smith mounted the stone steps and rapped on the weathered wooden door. His face set in a rictus of pain, he was clutching desperately at his chest, breathing heavily, pounding again upon the heavily secured door.
'Yes, sir?' a Special Branch detective said, opening the door slightly and regarding him carefully in the dim light. 'You all right, sir? Don't look well at all, I'm afraid.'
'John. Dear old John. I say. Can…can you help me please. I-I think I may be having a bloody heart attack. There's a good fellow…' With that he pitched forward through the door and the man inside caught him in his arms. The three other officers manning the complex were staring at him, openmouthed, as he removed the leather satchel that hung by a strap from his shoulder and let it drop to the floor.
'Good lord, sir, steady on! We'll get on to the house physician immediately!'
He groaned in pain and the man called John stretched him out on the floor, before heading back to the console and the emergency telephone. 'Won't be a moment, sir. Doc's always on call. Be here in two shakes of a lamb's tail, he will.'
'That won't be at all necessary I'm afraid,' Smith said in a suddenly strong voice.
All four spun around to see Smith on his feet, breathing normally, with a long-barreled.357 magnum revolver pointed in their direction.
'All of you, put your hands in the air where I can see them. Out of your chairs. Now! Everyone together in the center of the room. Turn and form a line, facing the wall.'
They stared in horror at the large-caliber pistol in the man's hand, affixed with a silencer. They had no choice but to comply, not even a split second to send out a silent alarm. They simply did what he said.
'Noses to the wall, hands behind your backs,' he said calmly, quickly binding them all with plastic cuffs. 'Good. Now, how many of you are on duty in this facility at the moment? Anyone sleeping upstairs?'
'Just the four of us,' the man named John said, furious anger rising in his voice. How could he have been so stupid? He had been trained never to open that door to anyone, not under any circumstances.
'You will never get away with whatever you have in mind, you know. You have no bloody idea what you're up against,' John said.
'Really? Now how would you know that? In truth, I know exactly what I'm up against. Which means I've no further use for you lot. Except for you, John. Please step away from your colleagues and sit on the floor, back against the wall.'
'Oh, God, no, please don't-'
Smith stepped up to each of the three remaining men in turn and put a bullet in the back of each skull without a word. He looked at his watch and moved to the console, looking at the monitors mounted above. He quickly located the one he wanted, a screen that displayed views of the main entrance to the estate from many angles. As he watched, a large delivery van rolled to a stop outside the black wrought-iron gates.
THE LORRY, EVEN HERE IN THE HIGHLANDS of Scotland, was instantly recognizable. It bore the trademark of Harrods, the world-famous department store in Knightsbridge. You would see vans from the emporium often enough on the roads in Aberdeenshire. On the A93 between Braemar and Crathie, and on the secondary roads hereabouts, up from London, usually delivering treasures from around the world to the area's great country houses.
