ultimately convinced that McMahon was guilty, am I correct, Chief Inspector Congreve?'
'I certainly was at the time, sir. My Irish colleague, Constable Drummond, had learned that McMahon had trained as a bomb maker in Libya. And there were traces of nitroglycerine on his clothing when he was arrested. His fingerprints were all over that bomb. Molded gelignite was his signature explosive.'
'Still, Chief Inspector, I have examined the record carefully. It clearly shows McMahon was some seventy miles away when the bomb that killed Uncle Dickie exploded. It's certainly possible that a third party was involved?'
'Yes, sir. We were forced to conclude that the bomb was detonated by a remote radio-controlled device. Operated by someone other than McMahon, watching from the shore. Hidden in the woods above the bay, but able to visually confirm Lord Mountbatten's presence aboard Shadow V.'
'In other words, it is entirely possible that the man who made the bomb was IRA, but the man who pushed the button was not even IRA?'
'Entirely possible, sir. But I must say with the evidence we had, no one doubted this was an IRA operation. The IRA claimed sole credit for the assassination within hours of the explosion. And that was the end of it.'
'Sir David, your point of view?'
'I'd have to agree with your line of thought, sir. The death threat you found is reason enough to speculate that someone else, perhaps not even affiliated with the IRA, may have been involved in the murder. Sympathetic to their cause, perhaps, but not directly connected. A third party. Someone deeply aggrieved, and waging a personal vendetta against Mountbatten.'
'So, a third suspect. Involved in the assassination, but perfectly willing to let IRA Provos take all the credit, Sir David?' Hawke asked his MI6 superior.
'Something like that, yes. Deflect suspicion in order to carry out a personal agenda.'
'But, why? Why commit the murder of the century, at that point, and not take the credit?'
The Prince of Wales thought for a few moments and said, 'Indeed, Alex. Someone with an altogether different, nonpolitical motive is a distinct possibility. Someone with an apolitical, deep-seated, personal grievance against Lord Mountbatten. A disgruntled employee, a stable groom, for instance. It happens all the time. Of course, all of this speculation certainly doesn't preclude the fact that the perpetrator was simply a third IRA conspirator.'
'It certainly does not, sir,' Congreve said quietly. 'With all due respect, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.'
Charles said to Thorne, 'Monty, you've made a private study of Uncle Dickie's murder. Your thoughts?'
Hawke looked over at Thorne. He'd arrived at the luncheon in a startling three-piece white suit, beautifully tailored, a sky blue silk tie, and a pair of shoes to make even Congreve seethe with envy. Traditional wingtips, but made of snow-white suede. In the grey world that was MI6, here was a strutting peacock of the first order.
Thorne gently cleared his throat, looking around the table until he was sure all eyes were upon him before speaking.
'I'm sure you're all aware that, despite his heinous crime, Mr. McMahon is today a free man, having been released in the Good Friday Agreement. Outrageous, but there you have it. And, shortly after his release, Prince Charles receives a second death threat with an identical signature to the Mountbatten threat. Mere coincidence? Perhaps. But, as Chief Inspector Congreve so eloquently put it, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.' Therefore, we are looking at him again, hard. It is my position that Thomas McMahon is the most plausible suspect in this new threat.'
'Anyone know of Mr. McMahon's last known whereabouts?' Congreve asked.
'Last known address after prison was a council flat in Belfast,' Thorne said.
'I think I might pop over and have a chat with his neighbors about his present whereabouts,' Ambrose said. 'Sooner rather than later.'
'Good idea.' Thorne leaned forward and said, 'Look here, despite the fact that this case was closed over thirty years ago, I'm quite happy to discuss other possible suspects. But, I beg you, let's not dispute known facts. We know the motive, of course, do we not? Whoever penned the first death threat obviously blamed Mountbatten and the Royals personally for the horrific tragedy that befell his mother country.'
'Ireland?' Sir David said. 'Or perhaps India?'
Montague Thorne unsuccessfully suppressed a weary sigh. 'Yes, of course, Ireland, Sir David. Split in two? Bled us white? Pawns in the game? This has been the quintessential Irish mantra for centuries. Still, the record clearly shows that no stone was left unturned in the investigation. MI6 looked at the Soviets for it, primarily the KGB. And also at the Libyans, where the bomber McMahon had trained. He was IRA, no doubt about it, and this was clearly an IRA operation.'
Sir David, agitated, persisted with the line of questioning. 'But why didn't the killer simply act alone? Suppose he wasn't even IRA? A lone killer with motives of his own? Certainly possible. Then why does he involve the IRA at all? Sympathy for the cause? Or simply to divert suspicion away from himself and his true motives?'
Hawke looked up, stroking his chin. 'Possibly both, Sir David. But the murderer also needed a bomb, and Lord knows there were plenty being built around Belfast at the time. More bomb factories than pubs. Ideally, he would have to find a bomb maker reasonably nearby Mountbatten's residence in Northern Ireland.'
Congreve said, 'Precisely. Someone exactly like Tom McMahon, the resident IRA bomb expert of County Sligo. And, let it be said, a fellow who would have enormous incentive to lend the real murderer a hand. Possible, isn't it?'
'All quite possible, wouldn't you admit, Lord Malmsey,' Hawke said, looking at the MI5 man whose responsibility it was to keep his eye on the restive immigrant populations of England and Northern Ireland.
Malmsey, flustered, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 'Of course anything is possible. I'm not at all sure where this line of thought is headed.'
Hawke, smiling, said, 'Lord Malmsey, a hypothetical question. Based upon the language contained in the first note Prince Charles discovered, our killer had an abiding, visceral, personal hatred of his victim, Mountbatten. Wouldn't you agree? And supposing, for the time being, perhaps, being less politically motivated than the IRA, this hypothetical murderer had far less need of taking credit for his death. Yes?'
'I suppose,' Malmsey replied, unconvinced.
Hawke continued. 'Then we come to the new threat His Royal Highness has received, carrying the identical signature. Surely you'll agree it would lead one to believe this personal vendetta is still ongoing, thirty years after the fact. Yes, or no?'
'Yes, I suppose it's possible.'
'So, what is the current threat level aimed at the Royal Family? Any recent uptick we should all be aware of? And, if so, where is it coming from?'
'Uptick is putting it mildly,' Lord Malmsey said.
FOURTEEN
LORD MALMSEY NARROWED HIS EYES. Threats had risen dramatically in recent years, as a new generation of young Royals traveled the dangerous world, leading very active social lives. It had put enormous budget and manpower pressure on resources at both Scotland Yard and MI5, and there were no easy answers.
Plus, Britain had an increasingly restive, percolating immigrant Muslim population and was ill-equipped to deal with them effectively. Common knowledge. He was doing the best he could with limited resources, stretched thin. But, were he to be honest, Malmsey feared for his job lately.
He'd recently been pressured by the Home Secretary to promote Miss Karim to her new position even though he'd made it plain he believed such advancement was premature if not wholly unwarranted. The woman was glamorous, intelligent, and, he thought, far too interested in seeing her name in the newspapers. But he was an old hand. And he wasn't through yet.
He looked at her and thought, What sharp little eyes you have, my dear. Wait until you get to my teeth.
Lord Malmsey said, 'I'd like to let Miss Karim answer that question. She spends every waking moment dealing with the domestic radical Muslim situation. Miss Karim?'
'The reality of the situation is this,' Sahira said, rising to her feet, and Hawke found himself gazing at her with unfeigned interest. She was perhaps not beautiful in the classic sense of the word, but she was an extraordinarily handsome woman, had a remarkable figure, and was clearly brilliant. He now remembered why he'd considered his
