optimism. The Royal Family was seated apart from the guests, in a small alcove off the main room. Charles and his two sons moved furniture around, making sure everyone was as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.
Ambrose could see the Queen from where he and Diana were seated on a deep-cushioned velvet sofa. Her majesty was seated on a large silk brocade settee next to the Duke of Edinburgh. Surprisingly, Zazi had allowed her beloved Welsh Corgis to accompany her and they lay quietly at her feet. Her composed face and posture in this calamitous moment could only be described as stoic, if not serene.
Her uncanny ability to rise above this situation only confirmed Ambrose Congreve's long-held belief that it was her poise, her selflessness, her personal courage, and her enormous strength of character and dignity that had enabled her to lead her country so nobly for nearly sixty years. She had, in fact, become a British institution, and the reason was never more apparent than now.
Ambrose still recalled hearing her on the BBC Children's Hour radio program when he was a young boy. Addressing the children of the nation in the darkest hours of World War II, the fourteen-year-old Princess Elizabeth had said, 'We are trying to do all we can to help our gallant sailors, soldiers, and airmen, and we are trying, too, to bear our share of the danger and sadness of war. We know, every one of us, that in the end all will be well.'
'DO YOU THINK YOU CAN SLEEP, darling?' Diana asked him some time later, maybe hours, her voice barely above a whisper.
'No, but I want you to,' he said, putting a small velvet pillow in his lap for her to rest her head upon. He removed his dinner jacket and placed it round her shoulders, as she lay her head upon the pillow. A few minutes later, she was snoring softly as he gently stroked the hair at her temples.
Looking about, he saw that many of his fellow guests had been able to find their way to slumber. He could only attribute it to the reassuring presence of the Queen. One look at her and they seemed to believe, every one of them, that in the end all would be well. A few moments later, Ambrose himself drifted off, his arm draped protectively around the woman he loved.
NEXT MORNING, AMBROSE AWOKE WITH A START. The noise nearby had not woken Diana and he decided to let her sleep for as long as she could. Some of the others around him were awake, red-eyed, and still in a state of shock. The sight they'd awoken to didn't help matters much.
Colonel Zazi had cleared a space along one wall. It was an all-too-familiar scene. A banner now hung on the wall, white with Arabic script in red surrounding the depiction of a large red sword, dripping blood. A professional- grade video camera on a tripod had been erected, and many heavy cables ran across the floor and toward the staircase. Congreve had to believe they were going to do a live broadcast on British television.
There were a number of very bright lights, all on tall standards. A large, ornate, and heavily gilded chair with a crimson cushion had been placed before the banner.
Colonel Zazi was at this very moment escorting the Queen onto this bizarre 'set.' Three of his men kept their weapons trained on the Queen's family who remained seated in their alcove, and all of whom were plainly enraged by this treatment of the Sovereign. Once she was seated, Zazi handed her a handwritten sheet of paper. She put on her glasses, read it silently, and nodded at the colonel. Two of the young terrorists, now with hoods covering their heads, stood to either side of her thronelike chair, AKs cradled in their arms.
Zazi stepped to one side and told the cameraman to focus on him alone. He looked into the lens and began speaking in his deep baritone.
'My name is Colonel Zazi. I am a soldier in the greatest army on earth, the Sword of Allah. I am speaking to you this morning from Balmoral, Scotland. Last night, my soldiers and I took over the Royal residence-the house and grounds are now wholly under my control. We have also taken hostages, who are watching and listening to me at this moment. They include ministers and Members of Parliament, the heads of both MI5 and MI6, and many members of the Royal Family. I have drafted a list of demands that I wish to deliver to the prime minister, Mr. Edward Weed. You will hear those demands in a moment. If they sound familiar, it is because they were issued over a year ago by my martyred brother Abu Mahmood at Heathrow airport. Much blood was shed and yet still our just and righteous demands went unmet.
'So now I have raised the stakes considerably. Should you not heed our call, Mr. Prime Minister, I will begin taking the lives of not only your highest-ranking government officials, but members of your beloved Royal Family. These executions, beheadings, will take place in this room, televised daily, until I hear directly from the prime minister. Once he accedes to our demands and demonstrates convincingly that he is removing every member of British armed forces from sacred Arab soil, I will halt the executions and release the remaining hostages.
'I have asked a member of the Royal Family to read my complete statement and list of demands. You have shown in the past that you will not listen to us. But perhaps you will listen to your beloved Sovereign.'
The cameraman panned the camera around and moved in for a tight close-up of Her Majesty the Queen. Ambrose was astounded to see that she looked every bit as composed as she did every twenty-fifth of December when she delivered her annual Christmas message to the nation on television.
'Good morning,' she said calmly, holding up the single sheet of paper given her by the colonel. 'I have been asked by Colonel Zazi to read to you his statement. However, I have chosen instead to make a statement of my own.'
With that, she ripped the sheet of paper into shreds and let the pieces flutter to the floor. Ambrose felt like leaping to his feet and cheering. Clearly she knew her very life was at stake, and she was prepared to lay it down for her country.
'Do you want me to cut, sir?' the cameraman whispered to Zazi, standing right beside him.
'No,' he whispered back. 'Keep rolling. It'll make good television.'
'Today,' she continued, 'it is self-evident that a special kind of courage is required of all of us. The courage to stand up for all that is good and right. True and honest. The kind of courage that will show the world that we in Britain are not afraid of the future…not afraid of tyrants and religious despots whose evangelism is expressed through the wanton murder of innocent men, women, and children around the world. It has always been easy to hate and destroy. To build and cherish is far more difficult.
'I know that I cannot lead you into battle as did monarchs of old. I can only give you my heart and my sincere devotion to these old islands and all our people. I still believe in our great qualities and strengths. Our marks and our scars we carry with us-and remind us of this-that no matter how dark the night, nor how wicked the storm, we have always come through. And we always shall.'
The room fell into shocked silence.
Everyone looked at the enraged Zazi to see what he would do. His face was empurpled with rage, and he had his hand quivering on the hilt of his sword. He stared at the Queen and she returned his stare with unbending courage. After a few moments of this standoff, it was clear who had won the first round.
At first there was only a slight ripple of applause from a distant corner of the room. But it grew louder with each passing second. More and more joined in, clapping loudly now, the applause resounding and reverberating, and soon they were getting to their feet, all of them, and giving their Queen the tribute she deserved.
'Silence! All of you! Silence!'
An angry Zazi stepped in front of the camera and shouted orders for silence, which went unheard in the thunderous applause. It was not until one of the young terrorists fired his AK-47 continuously into the ceiling, raining plaster down on their heads that, slowly, the applause abated and the hostages returned to their seats. Zazi looked at his cameraman. 'Are we still rolling?' he asked.
'Yes, sir.'
Zazi stepped back onto the 'set,' standing directly in front of the Queen.
'There is a price to be paid for defiance,' Zazi said into the lens, barely able to keep himself under control. Motioning to one of the terrorists, he pulled his pistol from his holster and chambered a round.
'That one there,' he said. 'In the green dress and the emeralds. Bring her to me.'
There was a noisy struggle off camera. An angry man shouting, then pleading. A moment later a hysterical elderly woman, begging for her life, was dragged by the wrists by two of the bearded killers. She was dropped to the stone floor at Zazi's feet.
'Up on your knees, woman!' he shouted into the poor woman's face.
Sobbing, she struggled to get to her knees. Pressing her palms together as if in prayer, tears coursing down her cheeks, she looked up into Zazi's eyes, pleading for her life.
Zazi turned his head toward the Queen.
