late friend Tony Soames-Taylor such a lucky man.
She said, 'Yes, we have certainly picked up a rising number of threats to the Family. And I can state unequivocally that the vast majority of them originate in the Muslim community. And we run down every single one. We've yet to find many truly credible threats to the Royals. Mostly hoaxsters, cranks, poseurs, that sort.'
'Can you be more specific about the threat level, Miss Karim?' Hawke asked.
'I would say we now average five to six threats against Her Royal Majesty alone every week, two or three for the heir to the throne. Most come to naught when we run them down, thank God. The ones who appear serious are arrested and investigated.'
'And what's the profile of your targets?' Trulove asked Sahira Karim.
'The youth, Sir David. The disenfranchised young Muslim residents of the Indian and Pakistani barrios of the East End in London. The truth is, London has become an incubator for violent Islamic extremism, a rage fueled by disenchantment at home and growing anger about the wars in Iraq, northern Pakistan, and Afghanistan.'
Sahira Karim continued. 'Our long tradition of tolerance has made us an oasis for immigrants and political outcasts from around the world. The large influx of Pakistanis and other Muslims in the '70s and '80s led to the nickname Londonistan. Britain currently houses Europe's largest Muslim communities.'
'Who keeps you awake at night, Miss Karim?' Prince Charles suddenly asked.
'Other than my neighbors in the flat upstairs? The Pakistanis, sir. All of my attention is focused on them at the moment. Recent Internet chatter is most disturbing. And, as in America, our prisons have become recruiting and training centers for militants and suicide bombers. I am certain more homegrown domestic terror attacks are coming.'
'Pakistan,' Hawke said. 'Now there's a country that scares the living daylights out of me.'
'As well it should, Alex,' C said. 'Mr. Thorne here is flying out to Afghanistan and Pakistan tomorrow for one of his regular visits with our sympathetic commanders and warlords in the Northern Provinces. You and I will discuss the Pakistan situation with him when he returns next week.'
'May we get back to the specific threats against the Crown?' Ambrose asked C.
'Of course.'
Congreve coughed discreetly into his closed fist and said, 'I'm obviously very disturbed that His Royal Highness found the latest threat in this very room. Taped to the underside of a revolving chessboard. Outrageous. I'm going to need a look at the Highgrove guest book going back at least a month. See who had access to this room. And I think every employee on the estate should be exhaustively interviewed by Special Branch.'
'Agreed,' Charles said. 'It's certainly nervous-making. I've been advised to return with my family to Clarence House in London, but I'd much rather stay here, to be perfectly honest.'
'We've already trebled security on the estate,' the Prince's private secretary said, looking up from his notes. 'Perhaps we should quadruple it for the time being? Until this matter is resolved?'
'Yes, I fully intend to do that at all the Royal residences and palaces until we get to the bottom of this,' Lord Malmsey said, 'effective immediately.'
Prince Charles was suddenly getting to his feet, looking around the table at each of them. The meeting was coming to an end.
He had very kind eyes, Hawke thought, watching him. A gentle, thoughtful man who tried very hard to do his duty to his beloved England. This was the man who would be King, and a damn fine one, Hawke thought, one day. He suddenly remembered why the two of them had grown so close over the years. A common sense of duty. And a lack of any sense of privilege.
'Thank you all very much indeed for being here,' Charles said. 'After this extraordinarily thorough and extremely helpful discussion, I suggest we all have an extra glass or two of claret at dinner this evening, or none of us shall sleep a wink all night. Dinner will be served promptly at eight. I look forward to seeing you there. We are adjourned.'
Hawke picked up his pen and scrawled a note to Ambrose, folding it carefully and passing it to him as discreetly as he could. The detective, keeping the note out of sight, opened it and read these words:
Mountbatten, Ambrose. That's where this all begins. Find out who really killed him, and we find our villain.
H.
HAWKE WAS DRESSING FOR DINNER that evening when he heard a soft tapping on his bedchamber door.
Opening it, and still fussing with his ill-behaved black tie, he saw Ambrose Congreve standing there in the wide hall, firing up his pipe.
'Oh, hullo, Alex. Not dressed yet? I wonder if I might have a word?'
'Good timing, old dragon. Can you help me with this damnable bow tie? I hate these things, don't know how Churchill had the patience for them every day, especially when Hitler was breathing fire down his neck.'
'Go over to the mirror. I have to stand behind you and tie it the way I normally do. And look at your pocket handkerchief. It's all wrong.'
As Congreve got him properly adorned, Hawke said, 'You've something on your mind. I can smell it on you. Or perhaps it's just your cologne.'
'It's about the old Mountbatten case.'
'Speak, memory.'
'I didn't want to mention this in front of His Royal Highness, or anyone else in that room. Might raise false expectations. Might start a wild-goose chase.'
'I'll chase any goose you've got at this point. Spill it.'
'There was a third suspect in our original investigation. We called him the 'third man.''
'Really?'
'We kept his name out of the press. You could do that in those days. We couldn't find him. We tried for years. The man was a ghost. Cold case.'
'You're talking about him being the button pusher? The Mountbatten bomb?'
'Hmm. Possibly. We were looking at him for something entirely different, but yes, he might well have been this 'Pawn' as he styles himself.'
'An Irishman?'
'Most likely, yes. We got on to him through a paid informant inside Sinn Fein. This fellow was spending a lot of time in Northern Ireland. We had hearsay evidence that he met secretly with McGirl and McMahon the bomb builder a few times prior to Mountbatten's murder.'
'What were you originally looking at him for, then?'
'A series of murders that occurred over that summer, in Northern Ireland. A brutal serial killer. With a signature. All victims were young women. Pretty. Fair skinned, blond, blue eyes. The women were just random girls abducted from the forests and seashore around Belfast and Sligo, hikers, picnic types. That was the only element in common. The whole north of Ireland was terrified that summer. They'd even given our third man a moniker. They called him the Maniac in those days.'
'And?'
'The murders stopped with the death of Lord Mountbatten. He never struck again. At least to my knowledge. My colleagues and I continued our search for him long after the trial had ended. We even offered a huge reward for information leading to his arrest. Nothing. I believe to this day he was Mountbatten's killer. Long dead now. Or just very good at hiding. There is no 'Serial Killers Anonymous,' you know. Serial killers don't stop. They either get caught or they die. So suicide or some kind of accidental death would be the likely scenario.'
'Fascinating. Did you ever have a name?'
'We did. Smith.'
'Just Smith?'
'Yes, Alex.'
'I think our next stop is Northern Ireland. This Smith needs finding. Serial killers suffer from overwhelming feelings of inadequacy, as you well know, Constable. They crave publicity, notoriety. But they don't care whether they're famous or infamous. Our man Smith may well be the 'pawn' who murdered Lord Mountbatten as well as all those poor girls. Although God only knows why.'
'Find him and we'll know why,' Congreve said. 'If he's still alive.'
