'What about Miss Karim's concern about increasing Muslim extremist threats to Charles and his family?'
'I can't really say at this point. I don't discount threats from any quarter. Smith's crimes could easily be simply coincident with the political assassination of a Royal in Mullaghmore. However, Alex, I still believe what you said in the note you passed to me. It all begins with Mountbatten.'
'I pray I'm right. We don't have a lot of time.'
'I'm afraid you're closer to the truth than you know, Alex.'
'Why?'
'The name 'Pawn' was never made public. It was a very long time ago, you know, 1979.'
'And, Smith? Did that name go public?'
'No, it did not.'
'One thing occurred to me while dressing,' Hawke said. 'I don't want to alarm you.'
'Yes?'
'I was driving in the center of the road when the Jaguar pulled alongside the Locomotive.'
'Yes?'
'He could have easily gone to the driver's side, but he didn't. He went to your side.'
'I was the target?'
'Possibly. And now that we know it was an IRA hit, well…'
'Smith is after me, too. He's aware of my role in the Mountbatten investigation. He knows I was on to him. And he doesn't want me prying into this matter again.'
'My thoughts exactly. And he has someone on the inside. Either here at Highgrove, or Buckingham Palace. An equerry, a secretary, anyone who is privy to HRH's personal schedule. How are you getting along with the new regime at Scotland Yard, Constable?'
'I'm a god there. Always will be.'
'Very funny. I've arranged for a driver to get us back to London immediately following lunch on Sunday. So tell Diana you'll be returning early enough to take her to your regular supper at the Connaught Grill.'
'Will you join us? She'd adore to see you.'
'Thanks, no. I've an early meeting with C Monday morning, so I plan to have a quiet evening at home and get some sleep. But perhaps you could have a word with the Royalty Protection Squad at the Yard first thing Monday morning? Explain the whole situation to SO14 and also my suspicions about an IRA death squad perhaps stalking you, as well as Charles. We could use a little help.'
'Consider it done.'
'I've spoken to my pilots. We're taking my plane to Sligo airport in Northern Ireland Monday afternoon. Wheels up at three. Not a long drive to Mullaghmore from there. We'll hire a car.'
FIFTEEN
THERE WERE FEW THINGS IN LIFE Alex Hawke treasured more than being alone at home on a rainy Sunday night. His large house in Belgravia had many nooks and crannies where he could curl up with a good book. But it was the small window seat in the third-story sitting room overlooking Belgrave Square that he loved most. A hard, slashing rain beat against the windowpanes as he turned the yellowed pages of the book given him by Prince Charles at Highgrove.
He'd wandered into Charles's library after dinner the first night, looking for something to read himself to sleep. Charles had entered the room looking for some documents on his desk and had recommended Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene.
The book was the tale of an Englishman named Wormold, a divorced vacuum cleaner salesman in Havana. Wormold is, for various obscure reasons, recruited by the British Secret Service as a spy. Hawke found himself laughing aloud in parts and soon realized that Charles had not chosen the book at random. He'd meant it as an inside joke, but he had also known Hawke would love it. Wormold's biggest seller was a vacuum called the 'Atomic Pile.'
An inspired choice. And, even though the book was quite good fun, he found himself drifting off periodically, only to wake and gaze across the room at the dimly lit painting hung above the mantel. His mother, seated, was lovely in a long white satin dress; and his father, standing beside her in his dress navy uniform, ramrod straight, looked every bit the modest hero Hawke knew him to be. The portrait had been painted just weeks after their wedding.
They looked so very happy, he thought, and so very much in love. And so blissfully unaware of the unspeakably cruel fate the future had lying in wait for them in the short decade they would have together.
From downstairs came the faint echo of the front door bell. He looked at his watch. After eleven. Who in the world? He put the book aside and stood up. You could see the front entrance from this window if you tried hard enough.
He peered down, but all he saw was the top of a large and glistening black umbrella at his door. Pelham was no doubt making his way to the door at this very second, and a few moments later he watched the umbrella pass between the four great fluted pillars of white marble and make its way inside his house on Belgrave Square.
He glanced at the telephone on his writing desk, waiting for the intercom button to start flashing.
It accommodated him and he picked up the receiver.
'Someone to see you, m'lord,' Pelham said, calling from his private pantry.
'I was afraid of that. Perhaps they could see you instead.'
'You yourself were specifically requested, sir. I'm sorry to disturb your solitude.'
'Who is it?'
'A Miss Sahira Karim, sir. On her way home from a party at the Indian ambassador's residence and thought she'd pop in and say hello.'
'Well, I suppose it could be worse.'
'Indeed, sir. Quite a lovely woman. But I suspect perhaps madam was overserved at the soiree and thus the lateness of the hour.'
'Where is she now?'
'At the drinks table in the drawing room, sir. Pouring herself a rather large scotch if I may be indiscreet.'
'I'm in my pajamas and a robe. Do you think that will suffice?'
'I would strongly advise against it, sir.'
'Oh, all right, I'll throw something on and be down in five minutes.'
'I shall inform her of your intentions, sir. Shall I light the fire? There's a bit of a chill in that room and she's soaked to the bone.'
'Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, Pelham.'
'My pleasure, sir.'
HAWKE FOUND SAHIRA SITTING CROSS-LEGGED, Buddha-like, on the floor in front of the roaring fire. She had her back to him, but he could see she was sipping whiskey from a crystal tumbler. He regarded her in silence for a moment, taking in the long black hair, still wet and gleaming in the firelight. She was wearing an elegant silk sari. The folds of fabric were silver-gold with veils of aqua-marine. It held its sheen, even soaking wet. Hawke guessed she was wearing something very bright and colorful, perhaps a ruby brooch, at her neck.
'Sahira,' Hawke said softly from the doorway, so as not to alarm her.
She turned fully around and said as she smiled, 'Dear Alex, you must think me quite mad.'
'Not at all. I'm delighted to see you again.'
He'd been right about the brooch. And the rubies.
She said, 'As the old cliche would have it, I was in the neighborhood. I decided to walk home from a dinner party just over in Eaton Place. It was threatening rain, but then I love storms.'
Hawke knew how she felt. Bad weather always cheered him more than blue skies. Storms enchanted him, always had.
